Legacies
by hellseries
Summary: (Sequel to "Alliances.") "My turn now," said a silky voice, and I turned to see a Sidhe noble intercepting Justine before she could return to us. "No thank you, my lord," Justine said with a polite smile. "It wasn't a request, little mortal," he said, and reached for her hair. (Spoilers for the series through "Cold Days", and for the short story "Bombshells".)
1. Chapter 1

Legacies  
(Tales of the Blue Serpent, Part Two)

Chapter 1

_At first glance, you could mistake her for one of the Sidhe._

_She's pale and slender, and her hair is purest white. She moves slowly, gracefully. Her face is serenely beautiful, but not with the cold, heartless beauty of the Fae. There's warm, red blood beneath her fair skin._

_You can smell it if you get close enough._

_The Sidhe stand too close to her, moths drawn to a flame—but the flame is so fragile, one brush of a moth's wings could snuff her out._

_They stand too close. And they watch me, to see what I'll do._

_They hear me grind my teeth. And they smile._

* * *

I stood in front of the mirror in our lovely, elegant bedroom in Mab's palace, and scowled.

The blue-black serpent tattoo on my arm was in stark contrast to my skin. It was an elegant design, graceful yet menacing. I tried not to think of it as a badge of ownership. I failed.

"Maybe you should just go like that," said Justine.

I glanced back at her over my shoulder. I was wearing beautifully-tailored slacks, perfectly fitted, made of something not quite linen in the same blue-black as the serpent, and nothing else. "A little too boy-toy for my taste," I said.

"Maybe not for Molly's, though," she said. "I would have said you'd freeze to death, but I've noticed I don't feel the cold at all."

"Neither do I. I think it's these," I gestured to the tattoo. "I suspect there's more going on there than just an ID badge." I turned back to the mirror. "It's not like everyone in Faerie hasn't seen everything I've got at this point," I grumbled.

"You volunteered," she reminded me.

"I did."

"And I'm glad."

"Still?"

"Always." She came over to stand beside me, twining her arms around my waist. "Do my hair?"

"Of course," I said. "What would you like?"

"You're the expert. Whatever you think looks good."

I moved behind her, lifted the long, lush fall of her hair, and kissed the back of her neck. I closed my eyes, breathing in her warm scent. "Sorry. Got distracted," I muttered.

"I'm not complaining," she said, leaning back into me.

I held her for a while, reveling in the incredible gift of being able to touch her as much as I wanted, for as long as I wanted, without the constant reminder of the ticking clock of her mortality. I laughed a little.

"What?" murmured Justine drowsily.

"There's no justice in the universe," I said. "That's all. The good people get chewed up and spat out. I get you."

"I haven't done anything to earn this either," said Justine. "But not to be thankful for it would be a crime."

"True," I said. I reluctantly let go of her long enough to find a comb. She sat down and I moved behind her. For a while I just focused on the white glory of her hair. Every time I looked at her, I could see that I'd almost killed her. Every time I looked at her, I could see that she'd been willing to die for me. Like so many others. What made the difference? Or was there any?

Well, yes, there had to be. None of the others burned me when I touched them. As she had, and would again, probably, unless something had changed when we became Molly's... servants? Retainers? Hostages?

It had not escaped my notice that Justine's tattoo made a noose around her neck.

"Thomas," she said quietly. "Let it go, love."

I met her eyes in the mirror, forced a smile. "How do you always know?"

She didn't smile back. "Because I know you. We'll be all right. We're together. This is the best chance we've had since we met."

"It's still not that great," I said. "There's really no one here we can trust. Except each other."

"Harry?" she said, but it was a question.

I shook my head. "I don't know."

"And Molly?"

"No. Well, I trust her to keep her word. It's one of the few things the Winter Lady has in common with the old Molly. But she has to have her own agenda, and I don't trust her to have our backs."

"You don't? Even though you're sworn to have hers?"

I shook my head. "Let's just say I hope we don't have to find out."

I ran the comb through her hair a few more times and got to work.

* * *

"You look lovely, Justine," Molly said. She sounded as if she meant it, but there was a little crease between her eyebrows.

"Thank you," Justine said. "You're looking well yourself."

Molly gave an absent nod as she studied Justine's hair. It cascaded down her back in a long tail, bound by an intricate net of thin braids that emerged from the fall, intertwined with it, returned to it. No jewels, no ribbons, no pins; just her glorious hair itself, like a foaming waterfall or a cascade of ice.

"Thomas," Molly said slowly, "this is... almost a spell. Did you do that on purpose?"

"No," I said. "I'm not a wizard. You know that."

She turned a penetrating look on me. After a moment she said, "I believe you. Because if you could see... it's like a beacon. It will attract attention."

"Should I undo it?"

Molly thought about it, but before she could answer, Justine spoke up. "No. Leave it."

Molly and I both looked at her. She raised her chin slightly. "Let them know who I belong to."

"It might not be safe for you," said Molly.

"I haven't been safe since I was born," Justine said. "I'm used to it."

Molly shook her head, but made no objection. "Are you ready?" she asked me.

"I am," I said. I carried neither pistol nor sword. Firearms are notoriously unreliable in the Nevernever. Blades, in this context, weren't worth the risk. Molly had made the rules abundantly clear: speaking to Mab, or spilling blood on her floor, without her express permission, would bring her wrath on all three of us, with fatal results if we were lucky. So I carried a telescoping baton of matte-black steel, and my demon.

Unlike my brother, I can keep my mouth shut. Therefore I wasn't worried about Mab. Which only left everyone else at the party.

Tonight was Imbolc, the festival that marked the waning of Winter and the beginning of Summer's increase. Mab had invited various dignitaries, allies and rivals to this last hurrah before her Court ceded precedence to Titania's; it would be the first time many of them had laid eyes on the new Winter Lady, who'd spent much of the past year in seclusion. And many of them would take the opportunity to test her, in one way or another.

Molly was beautifully dressed. Her gown was worthy of her rank: narrow and simply cut, sheer silk over satin in dark, smoky blue, it glittered with tiny dark beads, jet and amethyst and silvery-black hematite, in subtle, delicate patterns. It was almost monastically simple compared with the Winter Court's usual garb. Justine and I matched her. Justine wore a long elegant gown, straight in the front, the skirt made full with tiny crisp pleats in the back. I wore a jacket and trousers of the same material, blue/black, slightly lustrous almost-linen. The jacket lacked a right sleeve, leaving my weapon arm free. I wore my pentacle. Justine wore a star sapphire pendant on a silver chain and small earrings to match. We stood out, simply because of the lack of flash, and Molly's rivals would look cheap and obvious in contrast. The serpent tattoos on Justine's neck and my right arm stood out boldly, marking us as the Winter Lady's. I was sure we were intended as a challenge and a defiance, but I wasn't sure to whom. Maybe to everyone there. I hoped not to Mab herself.

I stepped out into the corridor behind Molly, ahead of Justine, and we had gone about twenty feet when I realized something was wrong. I slowed down. I scanned the corridor, floor, walls, ceiling. Nothing. No sound. No air movement. No smell... ah. I put up a hand to tell Justine to stop. I let Molly get a few yards ahead of us.

"Molly," I said. She turned around, and I put myself between her and Justine. "Why can't I smell you?" I asked.

"Oh," she said. "It's a veil. I'm sorry. I should have told you."

"Prove it," I said.

She sighed, flicked her hand out and was suddenly holding a small, wicked blade of ice. She cut a short slice into the base of her left thumb and held her hand palm-out so I could see the little beads of blood well up. Red, yes, and the consistency was right, but I couldn't smell it either.

"Not good enough," I said. "Could be an illusion. How do I know it's you?"

Molly made the knife vanish and threw a forceful open-handed gesture at me as she snapped, _"Osuwari!"_ An invisible force knocked me on my ass. I blinked up at her.

"Inuyasha? Seriously?" I said in disbelief. Behind me, I heard Justine giggle.

Molly looked smug.

"What are you, twelve?" I asked.

Molly snorted. "Don't give me that. You're a grown-ass vampire half again my age, and you got the reference."

"When you stalk the night, you've gotta do _something_ to pass the time in the daylight hours," I said, and I let myself smile. It had been a while.

Molly grinned, walked over and extended a hand to me. I clasped it and got up. (And of course, as soon as I touched her, I could tell she was indeed Molly. As if the anime fangirl spell weren't evidence enough.) She let go of me and took a moment to heal the little cut in her palm.

"Can you give him bishie sparkles?" Justine asked, coming over to tousle my hair. I glared at her.

"I. Do not. Sparkle." I said in as forbidding a tone as I could manage with my lover messing with my hair.

"Oh God," said Molly, giving Justine a wide-eyed look of delight. "Best blackmail threat ever. In front of Harry."

"Empty Night," I said. "Justine, you're supposed to be on my side."

"Can I have a Team Thomas shirt?" Justine asked.

"I'll make us each one," said Molly wickedly.

I buried my face in my hands. "This deal is getting worse all the time," I said.

Justine took my hands and kissed them. "I'll make it up to you later," she said softly.

"Get a room," said Molly, still smiling. "Oh wait. You already have several."

"Very nice ones. Thank you," said Justine.

"You're welcome," said Molly. "But seriously—Thomas, I apologize for worrying you. And thank you for being on-task."

"No problem," I said.

"Most of the Sidhe are as good as bloodhounds," said Molly. "I got tired of constantly advertising my emotional state. So: olfactory veil."

"Okay," I said. "Warn me next time. I like to know I'm guarding the right body."

Molly gave me a little crooked half-smile. "Let's go hang out with the grownups," she said.

The celebration was a trial. Justine and I stood behind Molly's left and right shoulders as she greeted Mab's guests, smiling graciously, poised and charming. Most were off-the-shelf Sidhe nobles: stunningly gorgeous, inhumanly graceful, strong, fast, magical, blah blah blah. "Now you know how the rest of us feel," Justine murmured to me between groups. I pretended not to know what she was talking about, but yeah. I felt short, plain, and dull.

There was some subtle posturing, some carefully-couched insults, but nothing major. There were a few nasties that stood out from the crowd: trolls, goblins, and a lean, weathered guy whose demeanor screamed _predator!_ Molly identified him as Long Lankin, sort of the patron saint of serial killers.

The Leanansidhe passed through, leading a brace of hounds on a silver chain. One male, one female; the dark-pewter-colored beasts were panting anxiously, ears low, tails tucked, yellow eyes ceaselessly searching for the next threat. I wondered who they had been, and what they had done to deserve their current state.

The Erlking nodded to me from across the room, but we didn't speak. And there were a few pleasant surprises: a troop of Einherjaren and a delegation of Svartalfar. I could see some of the tension ease out of Molly in the presence of her allies. I glimpsed Mab only at a distance; she seemed content to sit back and watch her heir-apparent work the crowd. The crowd, in return, seemed to feel this was an opportunity for sizing up the fresh meat, rather than going straight in for the kill. But that, of course, was subject to change without notice.

Molly was hyper-alert, her pupils contracted, her breathing slightly more rapid and shallow than it should have been. As the night wore on she spoke less, and her smile became a little less natural. A couple of times I saw Justine brush shoulders with her, as if accidentally, and each time the tight line of Molly's neck eased fractionally, as if she'd drawn strength or comfort from the contact.

Interesting.

The party was well under way, and most of the guests were circulating through the room, gathering in twos and threes and tens to spar with wit and trade in gossip, when something stirred at the door, curiosity and then silent attention spreading outward in ripples through the crowd. A man in mortal attire, slender and poised but not inhumanly tall, paced unhurriedly into the room, and the Sidhe gracefully swayed aside to clear a path for him. His hair was dark but for a single white streak; he wore a neatly-trimmed goatee. He didn't look around; he simply strolled straight up to Molly and bowed slightly, a look of suave amusement on his face.

"Miss Carpenter," he said pleasantly. "How charming to see you here."

His shadow stretched long and dark behind him, though Mab's magical party lights were arranged in such a way that none of the rest of us cast one.

"Nicodemus Archleone," said Molly.

I shifted my weight slightly.

"Stand down, Thomas," Molly said in a voice like cold steel, and suddenly I couldn't move. On her other side, Justine was utterly still, whether by choice or not I couldn't tell.

Nicodemus raised an eyebrow. "So like her mother, don't you think?" he asked me. His voice oozed malicious glee like fluid from a four-day-old corpse at midsummer. "I look forward to doing a detailed comparison. With Michael to take notes." Molly didn't react outwardly, but I heard her heart rate jump. Nicodemus sensed her rage, apparently. His smile widened.

"And where is the Winter Knight?" he asked Molly. "It's not like Dresden to pass up a chance to be in the thick of things."

"I believe he's running errands for the Queen," Molly said evenly. "You could always ask her."

Nicodemus smiled. "That would be rude," he said chidingly. "I'm sure Her Majesty will tell me what she thinks best for me to know. But I had so hoped to see Dresden here. I had a proposition to make to him."

"He'll be sorry he missed you," Molly said. (_Hopefully he'll have better aim next time,_ I thought.)

"I like your minions," said Nicodemus thoughtfully. "Very decorative." He looked Justine over, very slowly and thoroughly. "I can see why you took the vampire," he continued, "but this one puzzles me. You haven't taken her, at least not yet. She's not talented. Not a sensitive. Not even particularly stable. Is she just pet food?" My own anger and my demon's were in perfect synch, both snarling _Ours!_ Nicodemus smiled slightly but didn't spare me a glance. Instead, he looked at Molly, eyebrows raised. "Oh. _Oh._ He's for you to use, and she's here to watch. While they yearn so for each other. And you glory in your newfound power." His smile grew wider. "You're learning, little Molly. In a few more years, I might have an offer to make you as well."

"Why are you here?" Molly asked him. Her feigned boredom was pretty good, if you didn't know there was murderous fury beneath it.

"Mab owes me a debt," said Nicodemus. "I'm here to collect. Deirdre advised me to take you as my payment. Play with you for a while—I confess, I'm curious what would happen if we just locked your Sight open and took you home with us—then trade you, perhaps, for one of your parents. Maybe even both of them. There's an outside chance we could even get the traitor to trade himself for you, but I doubt it. Still, his teacher's example... but no. No, I prefer to take the long view. I can just sit back and watch you destroy yourself. Taking Dresden with you, probably; certainly tearing your family apart. Look at what a few years of the mantle did for Lloyd Slate, after all; or a few decades for Maeve. I'm in no hurry. And this way I can use my credit for something more important."

"One thing about being immortal," Molly said, "is that I have a better chance of being there to see you go down. And when you do, I'll pour a libation to Shiro over your smoking carcass."

Nicodemus laughed. "Many have said so. Their bones are dust, and their tongue is no longer spoken," he said. "Enjoy the party, Miss Carpenter."

He bowed gracefully and left, weaving his way through the crowd towards the dais where Mab was seated.

Molly took a deep and somewhat shaky breath. "Okay," she said, and I felt the magical straitjacket fall away. Justine sagged, and Molly supported her with a hand under her elbow.

"Take Justine back to your quarters," she told me quietly.

"But you—" I began.

"_Now,_ Thomas," she said, though she didn't reinforce it with any magical coercion this time. She looked over her shoulder, tracking Nicodemus. He wasn't visible, but his shadow was, trailing up the back wall near Mab's dais.

"You shouldn't be here without backup," Justine said. She was shivering, and her voice was barely stronger than a whisper. I put an arm around her and she leaned into me gratefully. Her terror was so strong it made my breath catch. My demon stirred, hungry. I ignored it.

"I don't have to stay much longer," said Molly. "He won't risk insulting Mab in her own stronghold. Not without backup of his own. He was just amusing himself."

"Then we'll stay too," Justine said, more strongly. "And we'll all leave together."

Molly opened her mouth, closed it, and nodded. She looked exhausted.

"Molly," I said, "may I?"

"Go ahead," she said. I cradled Justine's face in my hand. She closed her eyes and sighed as I kissed her forehead and carefully drew off the worst of her fear. She put her head on my shoulder for a moment, letting me use her as a screen so I could take Molly's hand without being seen.

Molly's emotions were as strong as Justine's, but much more complicated. Fear, horror, rage and shame fought for control of her. But she was holding herself together with a cold, hopeless tenacity, the desperate strength of the Rag Lady.

I didn't dare speak encouragement to her, not in a roomful of powerful, acute and ruthless rivals. But I could calm her, numb her as a leech does its victim, while my demon strained greedily for the intoxicating banquet before us.

I wanted them both, wanted them naked and panting and grappling with me, _right fucking now._ It was hard to let go of Molly's hand, harder to release Justine. But this wasn't my first rodeo, and I managed, without drawing any undue attention.

As fate, or Mab's sense of humor, would have it, that was when the music started.

"Jesus fucking Christ," said Molly between her teeth. "This is all I need."

"May I have this dance?" said a voice behind us, and we all three turned to see Harry, in a tux of all things, smiling at Molly and holding out a hand. She took it, with a deep, shaky breath in and out.

"Boss. Nicodemus is here."

"I heard," said Harry. He looked her over carefully. "You okay?"

She nodded. "Yeah. So far, just talk. Threatened me, threatened Mom and Dad, insulted you, me, Thomas and Justine, gave me a new subject for nightmares, all in less than a minute of conversation."

"Typical. I'm sorry I couldn't run interference. You look good, by the way." He tilted his head, eyeing her darkly-glittering gown. "Actually, you look like a cloud of mordite."

"Which is in no way deliberate," she said, with just a gleam of the old Molly.

"Of course not," he said. "Shall we?" and he led her out onto the dance floor as I did the same for Justine.

We danced. (Who knew my graceless little brother could dance? And who taught him?) After a while I handed Justine off to Etri, the chief of the Svartalves; Harry yielded Molly to me, and he slipped away, presumably to continue avoiding Nicodemus.

"I think this is the first time I've danced with you that nobody's died," I commented, as the song drew to a close.

Molly shook her head. "Night's still young," she said. "Although—"

"My turn now," said a silky voice, and I turned to see a Sidhe noble intercepting Justine before she could return to us.

"No thank you, my lord," Justine said with a polite smile.

"It wasn't a request, little mortal," he said, and reached for her hair.

I grabbed my baton. But before I could snap it open, before the Sidhe's hand could close, the snake tattooed on Justine's neck darted its head forward and sank its fangs into the Sidhe's wrist. He shrieked and jerked his arm back, grabbing at the wound with his other hand. A thin trail of black smoke twined upward from it, and the Sidhe backpedaled rapidly, his eyes on Molly. She raised an eyebrow at him.

"You may not be familiar with the customs of the mortal world," she said quietly. "Where we come from? No means no."

The Sidhe pressed his lips together tightly, nodded, turned, and faded into the crowd.

Molly turned an inquiring look to me. I shrugged and returned my baton to its sheath.

"Thanks," said Justine to Molly.

"Part of the deal," Molly said.

The evening wore on. I danced a few dances with indistinguishable Sidhe ladies (which is to say, they were all staggeringly beautiful, reeking with lust, magically talented enough to turn me into a cockroach and strong enough to stomp me into the floor without needing to). It was like being back at House Raith, in my teens. Ordinarily I'd have found it intimidating, but compared with Nicodemus, the Sidhe were straightforward, honorable, friendly and cheerful company. I had to work to remind myself that any one of them could take me in a fair fight, and that several of them working together could probably take Molly down. At least, before she'd gotten her Winter Lady upgrade. I was grateful that Molly kept a close eye on Justine while I was occupied.

We left before the real party got started. Mab looked displeased, but gave a nod of acquiescence, and we were gone. Justine and I walked Molly back to her room.

"May I ask you a question?" I said as we headed back to the less-populated parts of the castle.

"Not here," said Molly. I nodded and held my peace till we got to her room. She took down her wards and opened her door.

"Come in," she said, and I ushered Justine in first, then followed.

Justine sat down on Molly's lone chair rather abruptly.

"Are you okay?" Molly asked.

Justine nodded, her face remote as though she were thinking about something else entirely. "I'm... well, no, I'm not fine. But I'll be all right," she said.

I put my arms around her and she leaned on me. She was still shivering a little, intermittently. I stroked her hair and she quieted. I looked back at Molly, who'd kicked off her shoes and sat on her bed, feet tucked under her.

"Can he really do that?" I asked.

"Can who do what?" Molly said.

"Nicodemus. Could he really lock your Sight open?"

She shrugged. "Probably. He's had centuries of experience torturing people, including wizards. All the Denarians lie like rugs, all the time, but according to my father, Nicodemus doesn't bluff. If he says he can do it, I believe him."

"So he was lying about why you're keeping me and Justine."

She didn't reply.

"Molly?"

She sighed. "I'm a human being, Thomas. Or I was. I can't help having mixed motives. And more power just makes it worse." She looked up at me. "So no, getting off on fucking you and making Justine watch was not the plan. And yes, I did get off on fucking you and making Justine watch. I'm sorry."

My hand tightened on Justine's shoulder and she touched my arm, glancing up at me. I eased my grip.

"You, or the Winter Lady?" Justine asked.

"I am the Winter Lady," Molly said. "At any rate, as I said before, that was a one-off. No more."

I nodded and looked for a less perilous subject.

"What did Harry want? I assume he didn't turn up just to show off his dance moves."

Molly glanced aside. "He... had some information for me. About some obligations I need to take care of."

"Anything you need me for?"

"Probably. We can talk about it tomorrow. You're off duty."

"Thanks."

"Molly?" asked Justine. "Can I ask a question?"

"Sure."

"Are the Sidhe immune to Thomas? They seem... well, interested, but not, you know. They don't have any trouble walking away from him."

Molly smiled grimly. "To the Sidhe, the White Court are like crack," she said to me. "They find you intoxicating. Literally. There was a fashion a few decades ago for wine spiked with vampire blood."

"Noted," I said. I bowed, Justine curtsied and we walked the short distance back to our suite. I don't know about Justine, but I felt like I had crosshairs on me the whole way.


	2. Chapter 2

I slept on the couch that night, but not for the jokey stereotypical reason.

Justine and I shared a bed when we could, but if I was injured, or stressed, or particularly hungry, I didn't feel safe sleeping in contact with her. This had been one of those nights, and predictably, Justine had objected.

"You're not hurt, you're not hungry, and you won't hurt me," she'd said adamantly, but I didn't trust my Hunger. Not that I didn't sympathize with its frustrated rage; I felt the same way. We compromised at last: we had sex, of course, and it was slow and hypnotic and comforting (at least for her). I drew off as much of her fear as I could bear, though combined with my own fear and anger and humiliation it sickened me. I held my Hunger in check, though we both longed to drown ourselves in her sweetness, to wipe out the memory of Nicodemus's amused contempt. I stroked her and kissed her and fucked her and whispered love and reassurance to her until she fell asleep in my arms, exhausted and relaxed. Then I retreated to the couch.

Molly called me early the next morning. I heard her as clearly as if she'd been standing next to me, but Justine, asleep in the bed a few feet away, didn't twitch an eyelid.

"On my way," I whispered, and apparently Molly heard me, because she didn't repeat her summons.

I got up, stroked Justine's cheek lightly, and kissed her. She smiled sleepily up at me.

"Off to do the lackey thing," I said. "Sweet dreams."

"Mm," she said agreeably, and curled up a little more tightly under the comforter.

I kissed her again, tucked the comforter more snugly around her, dressed and slipped out. Molly was waiting in the corridor outside our quarters, in a side-slit tunic of indigo over loose trousers. She turned and started walking as I came out, and I fell into step beside her.

"So what's up?" I asked her.

"You remember how I told you the contract you made is not with me personally, but with the Winter Lady?"

"Yep."

"Same goes for Maeve. She had a thing for talented mortals. To be specific, she had a thing for enslaving artists: singers, dancers, poets. She wasn't gentle with them. Some of them outlived her, and now they're bound to me."

"Can't you just release them?"

"The ones that she'd just recently taken, yes. Already done. But there are some that are pretty badly damaged. Some of them may not be curable. I can't just dump them. Harry's been calling in favors, trying to find someone who can help them. The White Council has some really good healers, and a couple of them have experience with this kind of thing. But they're leery of getting involved with the Winter Court, and they want nothing to do with me."

I had a bad feeling about what she might have in mind. "How many are we talking? And how bad?"

"Eight," said Molly. "Two are catatonic. The rest are all delusional to some extent. Two men, both really hostile and suspicious, verging on paranoid. There are three sisters, singers. I can't get through to them. Two of them won't speak at all; the other one thinks I'm another Maeve. And there's one kid, he's about fourteen. Brilliant dancer. He has seizures. Like, five or six a day. He hallucinates. And he forgets to eat. Or drink. Or sleep."

We walked on for a while, and then she said, "I have some idea what you do for Justine. Could you do the same for them?"

Bingo.

I tried to look unconcerned. "Maybe. But if they fight me, it could make them worse."

"Are you willing to try?"

I looked at her sidelong. "Do I have a choice?"

She stopped. "Yes. You're not a slave, Thomas."

"I was sort of under the impression that this was one of those 'if you don't come voluntarily, then you're under arrest' deals," I said.

She hesitated. "Only for a very narrow set of circumstances. Like, if I'm in immediate danger, and you refuse to defend me. Not this."

"The thing with Nicodemus?"

Molly gave a little twitch. "I was worried you'd take a swing at him, if he threatened Justine. If you'd attacked him at the party, he could have demanded a duel with me. And then when he won—and he would have—he could claim you and Justine. I couldn't let that happen."

"I... understand the necessity," I said.

"Believe me, I know how you feel. I'll try not to cross paths with him again." Her expression grew a shade colder. "Not until I have more resources."

We walked a bit further, and at last she slowed and came to a halt in front of a door. She squared her shoulders and took a deep breath. "Okay. This is it. I, I have a hard time dealing with them, so we're only going in for a few minutes. Just... take a look, see what you think, okay?" She sounded hesitant, uncertain; more like Harry's young apprentice than at any time since I'd taken service with her. I nodded, and she touched the door and murmured something under her breath. I felt the wards go down, and she opened the door.

The room was warmly lit and comfortable, with deep-upholstered furniture and thick rugs scattered about. It looked something like a bigger, brighter version of Harry's old apartment. There were doors on all three of the other walls, all closed.

Three women and three men were in the room. The women were all in their late thirties or early forties; all short and plump, with warm brown skin and curly black hair. They smelled alike, and they sat close together on a sofa, eyeing us apprehensively.

The men were more diverse. The youngest must be the teenager Molly had mentioned, slender, shaven-headed and freckled. He was curled up in an armchair, drumming on his thigh, looking everywhere but at us. A middle-aged man paced back and forth on the far wall, muttering. He had either a substantial leg brace or a prosthesis on the left, and his dark skin was splashed with pale patches of vitiligo. The last man was tall, hawk-nosed, with a deeply-lined face and thick, unruly white hair. He strode energetically up to us and ignored Molly as he fixed piercing blue eyes on me.

"What do you know about it?" he demanded. Molly put a hand on his arm.

"Nate, this is Thomas. He's here to see what we can do for Seth and the Ayala sisters."

The man scowled and looked me up and down. "Hah! Doesn't look like much," he said.

I shrugged and tried on Harry's 'I totally can't kill you with a thought, don't worry about it' faux-harmless expression. He was not impressed.

"Ladies first?" I asked Molly, and she nodded.

"Seth, Nate, Andrew, give us some privacy, please," she said, and the white-haired man snorted again and herded the other two into an adjoining room.

Molly waited till they'd shut the door, then led me to the sisters.

"Thomas, this is Carla, this is Sofia and this is Alma," she said, naming the women eldest to youngest. The eldest ducked her head and looked away, edging closer to her sisters. Sofia scowled at me but wouldn't meet my eyes. Alma spared me a quick glance and I felt the sharp flash of her fear. She breathed in, her eyes widened, and her hands curled into fists. She was getting ready to defend the other two. I backed off a couple of steps and went down on one knee, hands spread open.

"I won't hurt you," I said quietly.

They said nothing, and Alma didn't look convinced, but her hands relaxed slightly.

"May I take your pulse?" I asked her.

"You a doctor?" she said.

"Not exactly," I said.

She showed her teeth. "You're a crazy doctor. You come to take us away."

"Well," I said, "I might, if you don't want to be here. But I wouldn't separate you, and I wouldn't take you anywhere you don't want to go."

"Only place I want to go is home," she said.

"Where's home?" I asked.

"Brooklyn."

"We might be able to make that happen," I said. She looked at me full-on again.

"You know Brooklyn?" she asked fiercely, and I could feel power in her gaze. She wasn't a wizard, but I felt something out of the ordinary as her dark eyes locked on mine.

"I do," I said. "Haven't been there in a few years, but wouldn't mind going back."

"Yeah?" she said challengingly. "What'd you do last time you was there?"

"Took my girl on the carousel at Prospect Park," I said, and smiled at the memory.

"What'd she ride?"

"A dragon chariot. We sat together."

Alma nodded slowly. "Okay, crazy doctor," she said, and gave me her hand. I settled my fingertips lightly on her wrist.

Oh, this one was something special. I wanted her immediately (had Maeve felt the same?). Her madness was a shallow veneer, a thin spiky shell of desperate violence in defense of herself and her kin, the sisters who were more to her than life. Fierce vitality surged in her, and buried deeper there was a spring of pure joy that made me shiver and made my Hunger sit up and howl. I released her. I realized I'd closed my eyes, and opened them to her knowing gaze.

"You ain't no doctor," she said. She was still wary, but no more than before.

"Not exactly," I said again.

"But you'll help us."

I nodded. "If I can."

I could have lived for a decade on what Lara would have paid for this woman. I considered my options.

"Would your sisters...?" I asked, and Alma nodded.

"They will if I tell 'em to," she said, and turned to the middle sister. "Let the crazy doctor see your hand," she said, and Sofia did, still without meeting my eyes.

She was the same and not the same. There was no sense of power, of knowing, but the same intensity, the same fierce attachment, the same deep gladness. She was fragile in a way that reminded me of Justine, but without Justine's steel beneath.

The eldest, who gave me her hand without prompting when she saw her sisters unharmed, took my breath away. Beneath a frail barrier, tender as half-healed scars, the flow of life within her was quiet, profoundly contemplative; a deep, yearning sorrow underlaid by a deeper calm. She had a beautiful soul. I was almost ashamed, as if I'd been caught fondling something sacred, something never meant to be touched. I felt tears start in my eyes, and let her go.

"Thomas?" Molly said. She looked worried. I pulled myself together.

"Wait," I said to her, and to Alma, "I can help some, I think. With the fear. All three of you. And I can help Carla not hurt so much."

Alma gave me another measuring look. "Yeah?" she said.

"It will make you feel tired for a while," I said. "Probably by tomorrow morning that would pass. And the relief should last a few days."

"Me first, crazy doctor," said Alma. "Then tomorrow if I'm still okay, then maybe you can do your thing on them."

"Okay," I said, and I took firm hold on my Hunger, keeping it close-leashed and half-muzzled, breathing deeply to center myself before I touched her again, taking her hand in mine. And oh, empty night and all the missing stars, it was hard; hard to take only the vile, oily film of fear and dread and not that deep, glad current beneath. But I did, and she sighed, and she only wavered a little when I let her go. Her eyes were clear, not glazed with need, and I clenched my teeth and made myself not reach for her again.

"Oh," she said. "That—thanks. That helps."

"Tomorrow?" I asked her, and she nodded.

"Yeah. Tomorrow. If I'm still okay."

I got to my feet almost as smoothly as normal, and nodded pleasantly to them. "See you then," I said, and cocked my head at Molly.

She knocked on the connecting door, opened it, and said, "We're done for now, gentlemen." Then after a few sympathetic nods in response to Nate's grousing, she led me out into the corridor, put the wards back up, and faced me.

She couldn't soulgaze me (that ship had sailed), but she was still a sensitive, and the worry on her face was both faintly insulting and sort of endearing. "Are you okay?" she asked.

"Molly. I'm a vampire. I eat people's souls. What are you even talking about?"

"I'm a wizard," she retorted. "I've seen you in full monster mode. And I've soulgazed you. Don't front. Tell me what's going on."

I rubbed a hand across my face, pinching the bridge of my nose in a gesture I realized I'd picked up from Harry. "I can help them. Temporarily. Maybe enough to get them functioning, enough so they can go back to the world and get into therapy or whatever. They—"

"Stop trying to redirect me," Molly said. "You're hurting. What happened?"

"Look," I said. "You want my help? Don't jostle my elbow while I'm working. If you don't want my help, leave me alone until you do want it."

"Thomas," said Molly. "Don't make me get my flying monkeys. Talk to me."

Though the words were joking, there was an edge of tension in her voice and a thrum of suppressed energy in her presence. I discarded my first impulse (smack her into the wall) and my second (lash out and then brood). I sighed.

"They, um," I fumbled, "they're not... not ordinary."

"Practitioners?" Molly asked sharply.

"No. Alma might be some kind of minor talent, but that's not it. They... I wanted—" I put a hand over my face, and noticed to my disgust that my hand was shaking.

"Oh," Molly said, contrite. "You were hungry."

"Not like that," I said. "It's—I can't explain it."

"You don't have to," she said, and slowly, tentatively, she came closer and put her hands on my shoulders. She flinched a little at the contact, then said, "Oh," very softly. She swallowed, and took her hands away.

"I'm sorry, Thomas," she said in an oddly formal tone. "I hadn't realized what I was asking."

"'S'okay," I said, my voice rough. "No harm, no foul. Like I said, I can help them."

"You sure?"

"Yeah."

"Okay," she said, not sounding convinced. "Take the day off. Will you be okay with Justine, or...?"

"I'll be fine," I said. "See you tomorrow."

But it was only a few hours before she summoned me again.

Her voice in my head was sharp and strained: "Thomas, get your weapons and meet me at the front gates." I tugged on my boots, grabbed my sword and kukri and headed out at a run.

Molly had traded her light slippers for boots; a long dagger was sheathed at her hip and her wands were tucked into her belt.

"What's going on?" I asked her. She jerked her head towards the road leading out from the gates, and I waited for her answer till we were out of earshot of the guards.

"Someone took Seth. The dancer kid," she said at last, and though the diction was Molly's, the Winter Lady's wrath echoed in the words. "The gate guards let him through ten minutes ago, with someone they thought was me. He was barefoot, with no coat."

"Shit," I said. The weather today was no colder than it usually was here, but that still put it well below freezing, with a brisk, gusty wind. The envoys of Summer had brought freezing rain with them, and a glaze of ice lay on the castle, the trees, and the six or seven inches of snow on the ground. The kid would already be well on the way to hypothermia. The ice was going to tear up his feet. At least he'd be easy to track.

"No troops?" I asked. She shook her head.

"Can't afford it," she said. "My only chance of coming out of this without completely losing face is to get him back right away, with a minimum of fuss. I call out the cavalry, Mab's likely to start looking for my replacement. It may even be her doing, some kind of test."

I scowled. "Lovely." I'd been scanning the edges of the roadway, so I spotted the two sets of tracks peeling off into the ice-glazed snow. "There," I said, and Molly nodded and let me go a few steps ahead of her. She was continually scanning in all directions, probably with more senses than just vision. Good.

The trail was easy to follow: one set of tracks left by bare feet, and another, less distinct, by shoes or boots. The shod tracks sometimes crossed over the bare ones, but never the reverse. They wound under the bare trees, downhill into a more thickly wooded area. They went as straight as the trees and rock outcrops would permit, and after a while the boy's tracks were indeed flecked with blood.

We walked on for half an hour or so. Neither of us spoke. After a while I noticed that there was a mist in the air, as if we were heading into a thaw; but the air was no warmer, and there was no sound of dripping or trickling water. Just wisps of white that, as we progressed, joined into a uniform fog.

"Molly?" I asked. She shook her head.

"No idea," she said. "I don't think it's a spell. Nothing that stands out from the background, anyway."

We kept walking. Molly drew up beside me and put a hand on my sleeve, just as a sound came from up ahead: a little short high-pitched noise, a faint squeak or whimper.

Molly frowned. We listened for a while, but the sound didn't come again. The fog was getting thicker—obviously not natural, maybe not even here in the Nevernever. I took a couple of steps forward, straining my ears. I felt a vague unease. Suddenly the wind shifted and brought with it the smell of blood. I looked back to see Molly duck her head and half-close her eyes.

"Molly, _no_!" I shouted, and I lunged toward her, straining to reach her before she could turn her Sight on the fog. My slap rocked her head back an instant after her eyes opened, but that instant was enough to tear a scream from her throat. I wrapped an arm around her, put myself between her and whatever was lying in wait for us, but I stumbled, feeling suddenly weak and disoriented. I felt a surge of dread, of sickening despair, and I gagged on the familiar taste of it.

_Outsider._

Molly's knees buckled and I let her fall. I clenched my teeth and focused every scrap of will I had on drawing my sword, scratching a circle in the ice around us. I bit the inside of my cheek and spat blood into the shaky line I'd cut, willing it to become a wall, a shield. I crouched over Molly, spat more blood on my free hand, and planted it on the ground. I could hear footsteps approaching, a slow, uneven _crunch-crunch-drag_ over the ice-crusted snow.

"Brother," I said, with all the conviction I could dredge up. "Blood of my blood. Namegiver. Red Court's bane. Warden of Demonreach. Winter Knight. Harry Blackstone Copperfield Dresden, I summon thee. I summon thee. I summon thee."

My voice shook as I spoke the last words, and my arms were shaking. I dropped my sword and curled around Molly on the ice, knowing we were doomed, that it was useless. Anyone can draw a circle and call a name, but for magic to work, it has to be believed, and there was no more belief left in me. Harry was far away, serving Mab. He'd never hear me, and if he did he wouldn't—

"Thomas. _Thomas,_" a voice was saying, and something grabbed me by the shoulder and shook me, hard. I gasped.

"Break the damn circle, you idiot," Harry said, and I reached out a leaden arm and scuffed clumsily at the line in the ice, and then things started screaming and exploding.

The sick dread was still there, but at least it wasn't all there was. I fought for control, for awareness. Noise. Wind. Danger. Okay, "danger" meant something, I could respond to that. I raised my head, tried to focus on my surroundings.

Harry's back was to me and—I forced myself not to look at, not to think about, his opponent. It would do me no good. Either Harry would defeat the Outsider or it would destroy us all; there was nothing I could do against it.

But there might still be something I could do. I turned back to Molly, remembering vaguely that she was important. She was curled into a tight huddle, limbs drawn in under her. I could hear her breathing, little shuddering gasps. I looked around, recognized my sword, picked it up after two unsuccessful tries, and eventually managed to sheathe it.

There were shrieks. Some of them had to do with fire and ice and steam, but some of them were coming from... no. Not going there.

Molly. I owed her. I could move her away from here, maybe not to safety but to less danger. I picked her up; she neither cooperated nor resisted, but stayed curled in a tight ball. I found I could carry her cradled against my chest—awkward, but feasible. I turned my back on my brother and his opponent (not thinking about that) and started walking, following a line of fresh tracks in the snow, away from the, the, that thing I wasn't thinking about any more now.

After a while, as the sounds of battle decreased with distance, I became aware that I was talking to my unresponsive cargo, murmuring half-coherent reassurances. Had I really just said "It's going to be okay"? The absurdity of it made me choke out a strangled laugh. She'd begun to relax out of her tight ball, and I shifted her to a more comfortable position, coaxing her to wrap her legs around my waist and her arms around my neck. I stroked her hair, brushed her cheek with my lips and felt a little more strength seep into me.

She showed no sign of consciousness, made no sound besides her shallow, uneven breathing. I could feel life in her, but that was all; no more emotion than if she were deeply asleep or in a coma. I wondered if the Sight of the—of what she had seen had destroyed her mind. If it had, what then? Would Justine and I spend the next decades or centuries serving a madwoman, or would Mab see to it that the Winter Lady's mantle passed to someone who could—

I stopped in my tracks. Sky and woods and ice-glazed snow rang like a struck bell with the sudden realization.

Justine.

If Molly died, the nearest mortal vessel to her would be Justine.

Molly had planned it that way.

Justine was the Winter Lady's heir. And I was the Winter Knight's.

We'd been played.

Anger burned through me, and it felt familiar and right. But even as impaired as I still was—only half-recovered from the, from the—I forced myself to form the thought—the Outsider's mind-fog, rocked by the realization that I'd been manipulated by a fucking _child_—one thing was crystal clear. The very last thing I wanted was for Molly to die now. Even this far out from Arctis Tor, Justine was probably the nearest available replacement. And she was nowhere near stable enough to withstand the shock.

Even if she'd been ready, there was Harry to contend with, assuming he survived. (He must still be alive. After all, I hadn't become the Winter Knight. Yet.) I'd seen firsthand how much he was willing to forgive me for—but if I killed Molly? True, he might let me live. The damned idiot had let Quintus Cassius live, the first time (and look how that had turned out). But that would probably be the limit of his forbearance.

Speaking of which—this was the second time I'd abandoned him in the middle of a fight to save my own skin. He hadn't said a word of blame, even after I'd told him the truth about the Wild Hunt. I owed him better than to kill his apprentice. No matter how richly she might deserve it.

I kept walking. I held Molly close. Her warmth seeped into me, repaying the trivial exertion of carrying her.

Just as I glimpsed the battlements of Arctis Tor through the trees, a voice behind me called, "Thomas!"

I turned, and felt a surge of relief as I saw my brother still on his feet. There were streaks of blood across his face, and his right arm was tucked into an improvised sling fashioned from his belt, but he was walking without a limp. He looked grim, but focused and alert. I waited for him to catch up.

"How bad is she?" he asked.

"I don't know," I said. "I think she used her Sight on the Outsider. I tried to stop her, but I was a half-second too late. She's been like this ever since."

He nodded. "How about you?"

"I'm okay."

Harry put a hand on Molly's head and looked at her with the odd, unfocused gaze that marked a wizard's Sight. He drew in a quick, harsh breath, glanced up at me, then back at Molly. He closed his eyes and shivered.

"We need to move. Can you carry her the rest of the way?"

I nodded.

"And Thomas—no snacking."

"What? I'm not—oh. I guess I was. Sorry."

"Let's go."

A troop of Mab's soldiers, humanoid and not, met us at the gates, and Harry was giving them orders before the gates had finished opening. I shook my head. My kid brother the gumshoe wizard, giving orders to the Fae. And they were obeying, promptly and without question. He does have that effect on people, me included. But something about it didn't sit right. He didn't sound like an upstart mortal reluctantly dragged into Mab's web of intrigue and manipulation. He sounded like a ruler: self-assured, secure in his authority, ready to crush any threat to his territory.

Like John Marcone, maybe. Or maybe, just a little, like my father.

He turned back to me. "Let's go. Molly's quarters."

I used the talisman Molly had given me to bypass her wards and threshold, and I set her down on her bed. She was still deeply unconscious, pale and drawn, with deep shadows under her eyes. I frowned. She looked... different. Something had been nagging at me, I realized, and I bent closer and breathed in her scent.

It had changed in the past few weeks. Heavier, a little musky.

Molly was pregnant.

So that was the reason for the veil.

I realized I was still staring down at her, and I looked back up at Harry.

"You didn't know," he said. I shook my head. Maybe the Outsider's influence was still slowing me down. I couldn't get a grip on this knowledge. I didn't know whether to add it to the still-smoldering resentment at how she'd manipulated me and Justine, or whether it belonged in an entirely new and unexplored category.

It couldn't have been an accident, that was certain. Molly was clever and subtle even before Mab and the Leanansidhe had gotten hold of her. Now, I was willing to bet, even her plans had plans.

There was a knock at the door, and it opened to reveal Justine. She looked from me to Molly to Harry and back to me. "What happened?" she asked.

"We walked into an ambush," I said vaguely. "Harry got us out. And..."

I cast a pleading look at my brother, and he muttered an excuse and let himself out, leaving me to give Justine the news.

She and I had talked about the possibility of children, long ago; but even though my kind aren't nearly as fertile as mortals (otherwise we'd outstrip our food supply), we'd decided not to risk it. In the beginning we were both too vulnerable, our situation too precarious to allow either of us to protect a child. And then I'd nearly killed her, and she was horribly frail for months afterward. When we'd gotten back together, I'd just let the whole idea go.

"Molly's pregnant," I said finally, and I felt it strike her like a blow. She didn't say anything, just looked at me, her face a perfect blank mask. The face she used in front of Lara, in front of Nicodemus. A face she'd never, ever turned on me.

I couldn't move, couldn't think. There had been times when I'd been certain I'd lose her, but always because of outside threats, things that might kill one or both of us. Never like this, never by choice. All the danger and torment my twisted, fucked-up life had put her through, and this might be the thing that finally drove her away. I opened my mouth but no words came out. The only ones I could think of were _Don't leave me_, but I couldn't say it. She'd loved me; but she'd also been addicted to me, and I had no right—

"Thomas," she said, and there were tears in her eyes, but when she moved at last, she moved toward me, and into my arms.

"I'm done," I whispered into her hair. "I'm done with her. I'm done with this. I'll do whatever it takes to get us out."

"Wait," she said. "Don't... don't do anything stupid. We need to consider." She pulled back and studied me. "You're hungry. Are you hurt?"

"No," I said. "Not hurt. Just—there was an Outsider. They, they can..." I trailed off, and Justine pulled me close again.

"Here," she said, sliding her hands up under my shirt. "Help me. I'm rattled, I need to think." She kissed me and I groaned, wrapping my arms around her, drawing off the agitation that fizzed through her, drawing strength from her and leaving quiet resolve in its wake.

"I love you," she whispered. "We'll be all right."

"I love you too," I said, and kissed her once more before stepping back. She swayed a little, but recovered, with a sigh, and sat down in the chair.

"Better," she said. "You okay?"

"Yeah," I said.

"Tell me what happened."

"It was a setup," I said. "Someone disguised as Molly took one of Maeve's thralls out into the woods, not dressed for the weather, and we charged right out after him. We got out into the middle of nowhere, and we heard the kid, or something that sounded like the kid, over in a fog bank. Molly tried to see through it with her Sight. It was an Outsider. I slapped her to break her out of it, but I was too late. She's... gone. I don't know how much damage it did, or if it's permanent, but right now there's nobody home."

I looked down at Molly's inert figure, sprawled gracelessly on the bed. "I don't know whether to try to help her or leave her here and let her rot."

"You're that pissed that she didn't tell you she was pregnant?"

"It's not just that," I said. "She set us up. She intends us as replacements for herself and Harry. The next Knight and Lady."

"I know," Justine said, and I looked back at her, startled.

"What?" I said.

"It occurred to me as soon as you told me about the deal," Justine said calmly.

"Why didn't you say anything?"

"I thought it was worth it. Being made immortal is a good start; being made second in command of Winter, together with you, forever? Was I supposed to turn that down?"

"I know how you feel," I began.

"No, I think maybe you don't," she said. "The Winter Lady has power, Thomas. Real power. And... I want that. Very much. I've always had to count on someone else for protection: you, or Lara, or Harry, or Molly. I want to be able to take care of myself."

She looked thoughtful. "And you. You're strong now, stronger than you were when we met. But if you were the Winter Knight, you wouldn't be so dependent on feeding to keep your strength up." She leaned against me and put her arms around my waist. "I remember when you came back from riding with the Wild Hunt. You could have that any time you wanted. You could lead them."

There was a thought. I shivered a little.

"What about Mab?" I said.

"Mab is going to do whatever she wants, regardless of what any of us do," Justine said. "We're in her power already; that's not going to change."

"Okay," I said, "but what if Molly dies, and Harry lives? I'd fight him for you, but there's not a chance in Hell I'd win."

"Why fight him? I'd still have you, and you'd be oathbound to me instead of to Molly. Harry's not sleeping with Molly, even though she wants him to, just because it offends his sense of decency. You think he cares less about you than about that?" She smiled. "Besides, would you really mind sharing? You giftwrapped me for him once already."

"Don't remind me," I said. "It's embarrassing."

"I thought it was sweet. He gave me his least awful t-shirt and made me hot cocoa. Did you know he stammers when he's embarrassed?"

"Yep. You should see him around Lara."

She smiled impishly. "He's so earnest. I think maybe he thought I wasn't competent to give consent. I should be insulted, but as I said: he's sweet."

"Yeah. I should have been insulted at what that implied about me, but he never said a word about it. Which was... yeah, okay. Kind of sweet." She was having her usual effect on me: calming, centering. My anger was still there, but on the back burner. My mind was clearer, the sick dread from the Outsider like a half-remembered nightmare.

"So what do we do?" I said. "Just wait for her to wake up? Whoever engineered this isn't going to be sitting idle. Harry took out the one Outsider, but there may be more. And Nicodemus is still around."

"We need help," Justine said. "Information. Weapons, maybe. With Molly down I'm not sure how long our defenses will last. I'd be more comfortable if I had something to use against the Fae." She looked up at me. "Get a message to Etri. See what he can do for us."

I nodded slowly. "Good idea. I can hire out to them for a day or two; apart from whatever else we can negotiate, it'll keep me fed."

"Toss me in too," said Justine. "Etri was definitely interested when Molly and Andi and I came looking for you."

"Are you sure?" I said. "You don't have to—"

She cut me off. "I know damn well what I don't have to do. The Svartalves keep their bargains. That's good enough for me, and better than a lot I've had to put up with."

"All right," I said.

She smiled up at me. "Besides, I kind of liked him. And it sounds like the ladies showed you a good time, last time."

I smiled back at her. "They did."

"See if you can get more for the two of us together," Justine said. "Might be fun."


	3. Chapter 3

As it turned out, it was Justine who went to negotiate with Etri, because Harry came back to Molly's quarters barely able to stand. "Okay," he said to us with a slightly loopy grin. "I bought us some time." Then I had to catch him as his knees buckled.

He'd had a run-in with Mab. She'd apparently said something about not wasting any more time on an heir who was "too weak", and Harry, I'm guessing, had gotten right up in her face, threatening who-knows-what and either forgetting or not giving a shit that Mab could shred him into his component atoms and keep each individual atom alive to suffer indefinitely.

I had no idea how he'd convinced her not to kill Molly, and even less idea why she hadn't killed him. Maybe because the Mantles would have passed to the two of us, and she wasn't ready to start back at Square One.

At any rate, here was Harry, probably concussed, with both eyes blackened and one arm still in an improvised sling, his face bleeding from what looked like claw wounds.

Justine helped me settle him on the floor next to Molly's bed. She brought out Molly's very un-Fae first-aid kit and made herself scarce while I started cleaning him up. I wore gloves. Things were complicated enough without skin-to-skin contact with my injured, exhausted brother.

He was uncharacteristically quiet. He apparently barely felt pain any more, at least when his ability to draw on the Mantle wasn't compromised by cold iron, and he sat with his head bent, blinking slowly at the floor.

"Thank you," I said eventually.

"For what?" he asked.

"For saving my kid," I said.

He exhaled, a long, slow, weary breath. "Welcome," he said. He didn't sound happy about it. "Seems only fair," he added, with the defeated look he got whenever the conversation turned to Susan or Maggie. After a while he shook himself and said, "Good work with the summoning, man."

"Kind of surprised it worked, actually," I said. "Probably more about you than me. For all I know, anybody who stood in a circle that close to Arctis Tor and said 'Winter Knight' could have gotten you."

He lifted his head and looked at me, considering. "Actually, I have no idea," he said. "I imagine anybody who tried it with Slate would have gotten cut down on the spot. So far, nobody's tried it with me except you. Anyway. Good thinking, especially under the circumstances."

"Hm," I said noncommittally. I worked for a while on the scratches on his face, clearing away some stubborn dried blood. "What happened to the thrall?"

He winced. "Torn apart."

"Figured. I could smell the blood, once we got close. Here, let me look at the arm."

He eased it out of the belt, then took the belt from around his neck and dropped it on the floor. I slit his tattered sleeve from cuff to shoulder, then peeled it back. There wasn't much blood, but the whole limb was swollen and blackened. There was a gash above his elbow that looked like it was already infected. I got to work with some peroxide.

"Seems unfair that you can't heal like the Sidhe can," I said.

"Comes with time, supposedly," said Harry. "The less human I get, the faster I'll heal."

"Ouch," I said.

"Yeah," he said. "So it's actually kind of encouraging, in a twisted way, that I'm still pulverized."

"You don't have healers on staff?"

"Nope. That's Summer's gig." He shifted position so he could lean back on Molly's bed. "Mab can heal me if she chooses to, at least most of the time. Kincaid used a steel-jacketed slug, so she had to have help with that one."

He watched for a while without much interest as I finished cleaning the gash and began bandaging it. "Injuries to the mind, the soul, those are out of her league. At least, if we're talking mortals. Or recently-mortals." He glanced up at Molly. "I've been trying to negotiate some help for Maeve's prisoners."

"Yeah. Molly told me."

"It hasn't been going well. The Council can't afford to issue a shoot-on-sight for me, but they don't have to deal with me either, on matters where I don't speak for Winter."

"Wouldn't this count? I'd think the Winter Lady's well-being was pretty central to the realm."

"Yeah, but Mab's not going to let me advertise that the Lady's out of commission."

"That makes it difficult."

"Yeah." He leaned his head back and shut his eyes. He looked weary, drained. I didn't need to touch him to feel that his power was at low ebb. The fight with the (I barely flinched this time) Outsider, and then the altercation with Mab, had pretty well tapped him out.

"There's one more person I can try," he said, "and if he turns me down I'm out of ideas."

"Who?" I asked, as neutrally as I could. I was putting away supplies, cleaning up empty wrappers from the gauze and so forth, not looking at him.

"I can't tell you that," he said, resignedly. "I'm sorry."

"No problem," I said, though it stung that he didn't trust me. On the other hand, I was getting ready to lie my head off to him, and maybe abandon him, again, so... fair enough. "I have a favor to ask," I said, taking shameless advantage of his discomfort.

"If it be within my power and not contrary to any oaths I have sworn," he said, his eyes still closed. That stung too, that formal Fae rules-lawyering.

"Justine and I... have a job to do. For Molly," I said. "And I'm sorry too, but we're sworn not to talk about it, and she didn't exempt you. Anyway. With her incapacitated, it puts us in a bind."

"Something that takes both of you?" he asked. Now he was looking at me, and frowning, but he looked concerned, not suspicious.

"Yeah," I said. "And it'll take at least a full day. But we can't leave her, and I don't know of anyone we can trust to look after her. Except you. If you can."

"I'll do my best," he said, looking uncomfortable. "I'll protect her, of course. But I don't... I don't know if I can look after her... physical needs."

"You're worried about keeping her clean?" I asked, wrinkling my nose.

"Well, no. I can handle that, I guess. More about dehydration," he said seriously. "Look at her, man. She's not just asleep, she's more or less in a coma. If I try to give her water, she's going to choke."

"Harsh as it may sound," I said, "she _is_ immortal."

"As long as she wears the Mantle," he said. "But the child's not."

Fuck. I hadn't thought of that. I stared stupidly back at him.

"Could you... can you control her?" Harry asked. "I know you don't have to have a conscious mind to work with—"

"Whoa, whoa," I said, putting my hands up. "Slow down. First of all, I assume you're talking about when Kravos possessed that girl and tried to kill you?"

"Yes."

"Okay. Yes, I can flip the lust switch whether she's conscious or not. So I could get her to fuck me, but that wouldn't be particularly useful. Getting her to eat, or go to the toilet, probably not. It's more at the level of primitive reflexes. I might be able to get her to swallow. I can try."

"Try. Please," he said. "I'm going to try to get through to her, but I've got to get some sleep first. If I go poking around in her mind in this state, no telling how much damage I'll do. Can you and Justine hold off on your mission for a few hours?"

"Yeah," I said. "Till dawn, at least. Go sleep. I'll try to get some water in her."

"Thanks, man," he said. He heaved himself up off the floor like a ninety-year-old derelict and shambled out.

Justine came back, calm and unconcerned, with a subtle gleam of triumph. I felt a surge of relief as she let herself in. At least something had gone our way.

"We're on," she said. "Tomorrow, at their Chicago house. Etri's taking care of transportation. I brought back a list of things we can choose from as payment."

"Excellent," I said, and hugged her. She handed me the list and I scanned down it. "Okay, let me revise that. Brilliant. Amazing. Incredible." I kissed her, long and thoroughly. "You can do all the negotiating from here on out. You're clearly better at this than I am."

"Working for Lara is educational," she said. "How's Molly?"

"Same. Harry's going to look after her when we go."

"Good."

"And if we don't come back... "

"Are you seriously considering that? Breaking your oath?"

"I don't know."

She studied me. After a while, she said, "You know I'll follow you, if you insist. But I'm not convinced it's the smart thing to do. We have allies here, even if we don't count Molly. If we run, it's just us. No family, no alliances. Even Etri would take it as an insult, if we use him as an accomplice."

"If Molly doesn't make it—"

"Then I'm the Winter Lady. I'm not sure we can go far enough to stop that. And I'm pretty sure I don't want to."

"There's an alternative," I said. "If you're that determined."

"Speed up the transition?" she asked. She didn't seem at all shocked at the idea. "You know she's immortal."

"Harry killed Slate."

"With Mab's permission."

"Yes."

"You really want to kill your own child?"

I laughed. "Like my father? I'm stuck reenacting the past no matter which way I go. What do you call a Fae-touched near-warlock who sleeps with a vampire?"

She frowned. "What?"

"Mom," I said.

"It could go very differently," she said. "If we stayed. If you had a hand in raising your child. If it had two parents who loved it. Plus Harry. And me."

"Could you?"

"Yes," she said. "For your sake."

"You're assuming Molly would."

She nodded. "She at least had a good example."

"Better than I did," I said.

"You and Harry had one parent each, for a few years. That seems to have been enough."

I shook my head. "There's too much we don't know. We don't know if Molly will recover. We don't know if she'll carry the kid to term. We don't know who engineered the attack, or why, or what they'll do next. We don't have enough information or enough resources."

"We at least have somewhere to start on the resources. What did Harry say about Molly?"

"That some unnamed person might be able to help, and that he was going to try to get through to her after he'd gotten some sleep. He asked us to hang around until then."

"We can do that, at least."

We did. I managed, through trial and error, to get Molly to drink some water. It got easier with practice; I felt I might be able to get her to eat next time, if there was a next time. We got her cleaned up, put a t-shirt on her, rigged a diaper, and put her back to bed. Then we spent some time talking over Etri's deal, and some time just being together.

Harry turned up eventually, moving even more stiffly than before, but seeming more clear-headed.

"Do you want us to stay?" I asked him.

"Up to you," he said.

I glanced at Justine. She nodded. I pulled the chair up to Molly's bed for Harry, and set cushions by the door for myself and Justine.

I don't know what it was like from Harry's perspective, but from ours it looked like this: Harry sat by Molly's bed and took her hand. He bent and kissed her forehead gently and called her name, barely above a whisper. Then he went still, so still I wasn't sure he was breathing, and sat there for what seemed like an hour, eyes closed, not moving.

Finally he shuddered and coughed. He sat for a while longer with his head bowed, then looked up at us.

"Nothing," he said. "Nothing but snow and wind. She's hidden herself behind the Mantle. I can't get to her."

"Time to try your last option?" I asked him.

"Yeah," he said.

"Need us to stay with her for a while longer?"

He shook his head. "No. It'll be tomorrow night before I can get in touch with him.

You go on."

I squeezed his shoulder on my way past. "Luck, little brother," I said.

He grinned wearily at me. "You two kids have fun."

* * *

"Fun" was a description. So was "mindblowing," though not one I've often felt impelled to use.

So was "unsettling," for that matter.

Justine and I (warm, relaxed, and very, very clean) sat side-by-side on a comfortable sofa in a cozy, well-appointed lounge. Justine leaned against me, drowsy and smiling. I was so filled with energy I think the air around me actually did crackle a little. I wondered idly what my chances against Lara would be right now. I think I could have taken Madrigal with both hands tied behind my back (that thought brought up a little residual shiver).

Etri came in, closing the door behind him. He had a package in his hand, neatly tied up in brocade fabric in shades of bronze, garnet and brown. Justine and I stood politely. I bowed.

"Mister Etri. I trust our bargain is satisfactorily fulfilled?"

He bowed in return, a precisely calculated gesture that nonetheless seemed sincere. "More than satisfactorily," he said. His smile was polite, not the least hint of a leer or smirk. "The items you contracted for are being prepared for you. In the meantime—" He held the package out to me. "This is for your Lady," he said. "Let me make it clear that this forms no part of this or any other bargain, nor does it incur any obligation on her part."

I took the box in both hands, as was proper, and bowed again. "I understand," I said.

"Please open it," said Etri. "There are details I wish to explain, so that you may convey them along with the gift itself."

I untied the _furoshiki_ carefully and folded it precisely. The box inside was of plain, thin wood, deep brown, with a glossy finish like the shell of a chestnut. It looked very old. I set it down on the bar and slid back the top panel, and the sides opened like flower petals to reveal the contents.

It was a tea bowl, grey-white ceramic, rather heavy. Its pure, simple lines were a pleasure to see, and it fit into my hand with a sense of inevitable rightness, like the hilt of my sword, or the nape of Justine's neck when I drew her in for a kiss.

Thin lines of gleaming gold lacquer stretched across it, perfectly flush with the surface of the original material.

"Are you familiar with _kintsukuroi_?" Etri asked.

"I've heard of it," I said. "It's mended, yes? And the fact that it's been broken adds to the beauty and meaning of the piece."

"That is correct," he said. "This is a fine example, handed down through many generations of a mortal family that is now extinct. Its name means 'How deep is the snow?' The name, and the inscription, date from the latest repair; the bowl is much older."

The back of my neck prickled as I read the golden calligraphy:

"_Ikutabi mo / yuki no fukasa o / tazunekeri_," I said.

"Even so," said Etri. "It is a haiku of Shiki Masuoka."

"'Again and again I asked, how deep is the snow?'" I translated, for Justine.

"It was given to us," Etri continued, "with the understanding that it would be kept in use and never traded, but only given as a gift. The giver has since died, but at the time he told us we would know when, and to whom, to pass it on."

"Let me guess," I said. "Yoshimo Shiro gave it to you."

Etri's eyebrows went up. He smiled slightly and bowed his head in acknowledgement. "Indeed."

"When?"

Etri pondered, his brows drawn together. "It must have been... the winter of nineteen eighty-five. No. January, nineteen eighty-six. He had helped us repel an incursion of the Jade Court. His blade, of course, was not for us to handle, but the _saya_ and its fittings had become damaged, and we repaired them. We refused payment, because he had risked his life to enable some of ours to escape unharmed. But we could not refuse the gift. Only recently did it occur to me that the Winter Lady might appreciate it."

_Broken and put back together, _I thought._ He sent her a message before she was even born_. I reassembled and rewrapped the box carefully. I think only I noticed that my hands shook a little.

"It's a sign," Justine said quietly, after Etri had left. "Isn't it."

"Yeah," I said. "We go back and help her."

I knew better than to cross one of the Knights. Even a dead one.

When we got back to Arctis Tor, we took over Molly-sitting duty from Harry.

"Any change?" I asked.

"No," he said, glancing down at her. "Not really. Her color's better and she's breathing more easily. But still not answering me." He looked back at me, and his eyes narrowed. "How'd your thing go?" he asked.

"Not bad," I said, and kept as straight a face as I could. Justine and I studiously avoided looking at each other.

"We... had a message from Mister Etri," I said, "that you might be interested in." I showed him the Svartalves' gift and told him the story. He held the bowl reverently, running one thumb lightly over the rim. When I told him where the Svartalves had gotten it, he closed his eyes as if in pain.

"That sounds like him," he said. He handed the bowl back to me. "I hope she gets to use it. She'd appreciate it."

"It's not magical or anything, is it?"

He shook his head. "No. Just old, and beautiful. And given with love."

"Was he clairvoyant or something?"

"Or something, I think," Harry said. "I'll take it as a vote of confidence. That she can still come back." He stretched, wincing as his back made rather alarming cracking noises. "I'm going to go get in touch with my... contact. I should know something in a few hours. You guys okay here?"

"Fine," I said. "Take your time. We've got her."

"Thanks," he said, and left.

I sat on the bed beside Molly and studied her for a while, brushing her cheek lightly with the backs of my fingers. I closed my eyes and settled into myself, listening to my Hunger.

_Life,_ it said. It was sated, and its interest was merely idle curiosity. _Two lives. The new one is so small. We could eat it and not even notice._

_We're not doing that,_ I said.

_Of course not,_ it said, offended. _It's family. But what about her? Do we take her, as Lara did our father?_

_I don't see how, _I said._ Lara seized his will. I can't even find hers. Can you?_

_No, _it said. _She hides behind the Mantle._

_Can we move her body? _I asked it._ Get her to eat? Walk?_

It seemed intrigued by the possibility. _Perhaps. This is new. Let us try._

I thought first about control, restraint. How we'd held Harry still so Molly could kill the parasite. Then I thought about the opposite: nudging the body into motion. Not manipulating the will, but the muscles and tendons themselves. I picked up her hand, held it in my palm, reached down and in. Her fingers twitched. For a frustrating few minutes I made one group of muscles fire, then another; but I couldn't coordinate them.

_Too deep,_ my Hunger said. _Too low. Higher._

_What do you mean?_

It sent a wave of irritation my way. _Like fucking. Like swallowing. The body knows these motions. It has... like a dance. Let go. Let me—_

I figured out what it meant after a few puzzled seconds, and I struggled to relax and let it take our body, as I would in a fight or after a bad injury. Finally I managed to release control, and the Hunger raised our left hand, rubbing the thumb back and forth across the fingertips. There was a pause, and then Molly's left hand made the same motion. It looked strange; she moved like me, not like herself.

"That's creepy," said Justine, behind us. "Are you doing that?"

"Yeah," I said. "We are."

Standing was much harder. Without sensory feedback, it was ridiculously difficult to get her balanced on her feet, but eventually, with Justine helping hold her up, we got Molly to her feet and kept her there. She swayed a lot, but we were able to keep her balanced.

Walking was another order of magnitude harder. Eventually, by synching her motions to our own, with Justine for balance and error correction, we walked her across the room and back to the bed. I was pouring sweat, and even with the charge we'd gotten from the Svartalves, my Hunger was ready for a rest.

"Good thing we're about the same height," I said to Justine. "If she was Harry's size, or Murphy's, I don't think we could coordinate it."

After a rest, we tried again. And again. It got easier, but it was still cumbersome. Not much better than having to carry her, and it would never fool anyone into thinking she was moving under her own power.

After another rest, we managed to feed her a few bites of bread and sips of water. Everything went where it was supposed to and stayed there. And we escorted her to the bathroom where, after a struggle with the unfamiliar equipment, we coaxed her into relieving herself. Then we put her back to bed and collapsed for a while. Justine fell asleep, and I'd nearly joined her when the knock on the door jolted us back to wakefulness.

It was Harry. I checked to be sure it was really him, then let him in.

"My contact came through for me," he said. "He called in a favor. Listens-to-Wind agreed to take a look at her, and to keep it quiet. I got word to Butters too; he and Bob will be there to help. They're going to meet us at Molly's place in Chicago. I sent them my key."

"We've made some progress here, too," I said. "I can feed her, and I can get her to walk, slowly and with help. You want an escort to Chicago?"

"If you could," he said.

"I'll need one other person," I said, "I can't keep her standing on her own."

"I'll do it," said Justine.

A couple of hours later we were on our way. We took Molly's private gate from the storeroom down the hall to the forest outside Arctis Tor; from there it was a short hike to the next crossover point that would lead us to Chicago.

Everything went smoothly at first. Harry went in the lead; his right arm was functioning well enough to hold his staff, but he kept it close to his side and walked slowly and cautiously. We'd dressed Molly warmly, and kept her in the middle of the group; Justine walked beside her, her arm around Molly's waist, supporting and guiding her. I brought up the rear, with my kukri in my right hand and my left hand on Molly's neck, keeping her moving. She stumbled a couple of times, but Justine was able to keep her on her feet.

The Nevernever was quiet. In fact, I had just noticed there seemed to be fewer birds and animals than normal, and had just opened my mouth to say something to Harry when we were hit.

A loud double boom split the air. Harry jerked; I was half-blinded by the muzzle flash but I saw blood flying, and my brother began to fall. I shoved Justine down (Molly toppled with her) and went after the man who'd shot Harry, even as others began to dart out from behind the veil that had concealed the shooter. I'd just killed the first one and was turning toward the next when something dark flickered into my peripheral vision and I stopped mid-spring as if I'd hit a wall.

Something grabbed both my arms and wrenched and I felt the pain and heard the nasty popping sound of tearing ligaments. I gasped for breath. Then something reached _through_ me, and there was a far worse tearing sensation, everywhere, forever. The pain doubled, tripled, and I screamed. My vision darkened, my pulse roared in my ears and as I went down my last awareness was that Harry and Justine were down, with no one to defend them.

And Molly. And—


	4. Chapter 4

It all happened so fast.

I know it's a cliché, but there's a reason we have them.

One minute we were walking through the Nevernever: Harry in the lead, Molly behind him with me helping her, Thomas bringing up the rear. The next instant it all went to Hell. Literally.

They came out of nowhere. They must have been veiled. Harry blocked my view, but I heard the gunshots—two, close together—and I saw him jerk and fall forward, arms spread out, dropping his staff as he fell.

Thomas shoved me, hard, and as I fell I saw him leap onto the man with the shotgun. Blood sprayed; I think he cut the man's throat. Two other men grabbed Molly. I stayed down.

Thomas whirled away from the falling body of his opponent and a shadow fell over him. He stopped with a jerk and I saw the flash of his teeth as he gasped and bit off a short cry, then collapsed.

Then Nicodemus stepped from behind the veil and gestured. The Nevernever parted behind him and a gate opened up; he waved his servants towards it and they hustled Molly through. Nicodemus turned back to Thomas and smiled a slow, cruel smile. He said nothing, but his shadow made a sudden, rapid motion I couldn't follow and Thomas screamed and thrashed, his back arched so high only his heels and the back of his head touched the ground. After a few seconds he went limp. Nicodemus grabbed him by the front of his shirt, turned, and dragged him through the gate. It closed behind them.

I was still lying where I'd fallen when Thomas pushed me. To my left, Harry lay face-down, scarlet splashed on the snow under and around him. In front of me, the dead man lay sprawled on his back, eyes and mouth wide, drenched in a much wider, more dramatic swath of blood.

I felt panic begin and rise rapidly to my throat. I started hyperventilating and only barely managed to rein it in. _Stop it,_ I said to myself. _Harry's probably dying. Thomas is hurt and outnumbered. He needs you both. Suck it up._

I blinked, then shook myself and got moving. It took me several tries to roll Harry over. He was still bleeding (good, still alive) and the blood was seeping, not spurting. I pulled off my cloak, folded it and pressed it to the wide, wet red patch on his chest. He didn't stir. I called his name, shook him, slapped him. No response.

I started shaking. Harry was far too heavy for me to move, and I didn't know enough first aid to be useful. I couldn't go back to Arctis Tor; there was a stiff breeze blowing, rapidly erasing our tracks. I couldn't stay here either, out in the open and with the smell of blood no doubt attracting predators.

Without weapons, magic, or skills, I was dead (Harry too) unless I could summon help. I shuddered to think what might come if I called.

But Nicodemus had taken Thomas, and he wouldn't have bothered to drag a corpse along with him. Therefore I had to survive. And I would keep Harry alive if I could.

A flicker of movement caught my eye. Something off to my right, maybe forty feet from us, was disturbing the snow in an odd way. It looked as if the wind was concentrated at one spot on the surface of the snow, an area of just a few inches, kicking up a cloud of powder that seemed to hover for a few seconds before settling back down.

And it was getting closer.

"Thomas," I whispered, for courage.

And the invisible wind whispered back, "Justine."

Why is it that wondering if you're going crazy makes you start going crazy? I knew fucking well the voice wasn't in my head, because I know what that sounds like and this wasn't it. So why did I want to laugh and cry and scream and give up?

"Thomas?" I made myself say again. Had Nicodemus killed him after all, and was this his ghost?

The disturbance in the snow got stronger, a little whirling vortex that seemed to gather bits of snow and ice and air into a thicker and thicker cloud as if it were spinning loose threads into a tight, twisted cord. The white shape grew more solid, thicker, a thrashing, twisting length of whiteness that resolved into a little animal, like a weasel, all white, with bright, bright eyes.

Silver eyes.

Thomas's eyes are grey. When one part of him is looking out of them.

The little animal looked at me, then at Harry.

"Prey," it whispered. Its voice was thin, frail.

I shook my head. "Take me," I said. "Harry doesn't have enough to spare."

It rippled closer, its movement so lithe and quick it was hard to see, white against the white snow. It barely left tracks.

I held out my hand to it, and immediately it darted forward and bit me with invisibly tiny teeth. I couldn't help crying out but covered my mouth and held still as it drew from me, the feeling so familiar and yet so alien without his touch, his kiss. I blurred out a little then, but in a moment the pull stopped and I was able to focus again. He had taken some of the fear and anger for me.

"Call," the Hunger said, its voice stronger, more of a purr now than a whisper. The little wounds it had left in my wrist weren't bleeding; they were white and cold.

I put my other hand on the snake tattoo at my neck. "In the name of the Winter Lady and in her service, I require a messenger," I said clearly.

Two, three, five little moving, dancing lights, in changing shades of blue, emerged from the trees and hovered in front of me.

"Go to Her Majesty Queen Mab," I said. "Tell her the Winter Knight is dying, and Thomas Raith and the Lady are taken. Tell her where we are. And tell her Nicodemus Archleone did this. Go."

They spun and vanished. I checked on Harry. The bleeding hadn't slowed much and he seemed to be having trouble breathing. The Hunger watched intently from its perch atop my shoulder.

"Will Thomas die, without you?" I asked him.

"Yes. Not quickly."

"What can I do?"

It flowed down my body in a spiral like a squirrel climbing down a tree. It scampered over to Thomas's victim and burrowed into the snow near his feet. It sat back up.

"Weapon," it said. Thomas's kukri lay there, the hilt sticking up out of the snow.

"I don't know how to use it," I said.

It gazed at me, eyes burning. "Take it," it said.

I picked up the blade. It was heavy, and longer than my forearm. Almost a short sword for someone my size.

The Hunger climbed up me again and tucked itself around the back of my neck, a wisp of cool soft fur under my hair. It—he—purred into my ear: "Dance with me."

I closed my eyes and I could feel him with me, in me, surrounding me, intimate as fucking. I began to move, slow steps and turns and glides. Gradually I picked up speed, and the heavy blade was weightless in my hand, and I felt _wonderful_. Fast and graceful and strong. Invincible. I grinned.

"Yes," he murmured. "Like that. Together."

There was a sudden crack as if every tree in the forest had shattered into splinters, and Mab stood before us. Black hair flew around her, her black eyes threatened to eat the world. I dropped to my knees and hid my face.

"Speak," Mab commanded, and my ears stung with pain.

"Nicodemus and his men ambushed us," I said. "They shot Harry. They took Molly. Nicodemus tore Thomas's Hunger out of him and took him too. If Harry dies—"

"Do not presume to tell me my business," Mab said. She knelt in the snow, bending over Harry, then recoiled.

"They have filled him with iron," she said, and her wrath beat down on me like hailstones.

"We were on our way to Chicago," I said, daring to look up at her. "To Molly's place. They were supposed to meet us there, Listens-to-Wind and Harry's friend Butters, the doctor. Maybe they can help him."

Mab stood, lifting Harry in her arms like a sleeping toddler, his staff laid across his chest. She pulled something off him, scowled at it, and threw it towards us. "Use this. Follow them. Stop them." She frowned, then flicked her fingers at us. "You are veiled. Go." Then she vanished, so quickly I didn't even see the gate she opened.

The Hunger emerged cautiously from under my hair and descended to drag Harry's medallion from the snow where it had landed. I picked it up. It was spattered with congealing blood. I scooped up a handful of snow and used it to scrub the blood off. I put the chain around my neck. "How do I—" I began, but a woman's voice interrupted me. Strong, deep, authoritative. It sounded annoyed.

"Who are you?"

"Justine. Who—" but I was interrupted again by Thomas's Hunger, tucked back around my neck, one paw stretched down to touch the medallion.

"Mother."

I heard her anger in her voice. "No mother of yours, demon."

"You bedded our father. You bore us, nursed us, sang to us. You left us with _him_. We both remember."

"Stop it," I said. "Thomas and Harry are both hurt. Nicodemus Archleone has Thomas and Molly and their unborn child. Mab's taking care of Harry. Help us find Thomas. Now."

There was a short pause.

"Very well," said the voice. "You're no wizard. I will open the Ways for you, and after this is over we will talk."

* * *

Apparently Mab's veil was good enough to hide both us and the gate Thomas's mother had opened for us. We stood in one corner of a tall, narrow room with cement walls and a dirt floor. Half a dozen camping lanterns hung from hooks in the ceiling, making pools of harsh light separated by deep shadows. There was one door in the wall to our left, closed. The room was full of people.

Molly stood in the middle of the room, staring blankly into space, bound and gagged. In front of her and above her, her father Michael hung by his bent arms from an iron bar. He was handcuffed to it, too. The bar was only a few inches from the ceiling; not enough room for him to prop his chin on it, or throw an arm over it. With a start, I saw that there was a wire noose around Molly's neck. The wire ran over the bar, and the other end was cinched around Michael's waist. The wire was taut. If Michael's arms gave out, or if Molly fell (and she was swaying already), it would strangle her.

Beyond them, facing the door, Nicodemus sprawled comfortably in a heavy wooden chair with dark velvet cushions. Four men with automatic rifles flanked him, and his shadow hung above him like an enormous cobra, weaving back and forth.

"Call on your God, Michael," he said, amused. "He's sure to send help. And I'm so eager to see the traitor again."

Michael didn't answer. His t-shirt and jeans were blotched with sweat, and his arms were trembling, just a little.

I finally managed to look away from the three of them long enough to take in the rest of the room.

Three bodies lay in the shadows at Nicodemus's feet. Two of them were young men, maybe teenagers. Each held a sword. The swords, the bodies, and the floor around them were splashed with blood.

The third body was Thomas. He lay face down, his wrists and ankles ziptied. I couldn't see any wounds on him. Unlike the others, he was still breathing.

"Molly," Michael said. His voice was quiet and a little hoarse, but not as strained as I would have expected.

Molly didn't respond.

"Molly," Michael said again, more insistently. Molly's vague, lost gaze turned in his general direction.

"Margaret Amanda Katherine Carpenter," said Michael. "Look at me when I'm talking to you." His voice was so harsh I flinched, but his face was intent, not angry. Molly's eyes met his and locked there, widening.

Michael's eyes were locked on hers in return and for a long moment neither of them breathed. Then Michael closed his eyes and let out a long sigh.

Molly said nothing. She didn't move. But her expression had changed; it was alive, and present, and pissed as hell.

Michael's lips were moving. His arms trembled more noticeably.

Nicodemus watched, his smile wide, his shadow looming over him.

There was a noise outside. Nicodemus nodded to his followers and they raised their rifles and took aim at the door.

"The wizard first," the Hunger whispered in my ear, and I nodded and began working my way toward Molly, stepping carefully so as not to scuff up dirt from the floor.

Clangs and shouts came from outside the door, and a sound I couldn't identify, a metallic slithering noise.

Something hit the door with a thump. Michael's breath caught a little, almost like a sob. Nicodemus stood up, focused on the door, his shadow looming over his shoulder.

I darted the last few feet to Molly, caught her around the hips and lifted. She was heavy, but I got her feet a few inches off the ground, enough to put slack in the wire, and the Hunger scrambled up her and flipped the noose off her head. I let her down and yanked the gag out of her mouth and she whispered a word and vanished. I could still feel her, and I slipped my knife out of my boot and went to work on the zip ties holding her hands.

Then everything happened at once. The door burst open and a body came flying backward through it, all red, wrapped in wide silver ribbons that lashed wildly in all directions. Michael groaned and dropped from the bar, dangling from his handcuffs for a second, before Molly's voice spoke again and the cuffs dissolved into powder. Nicodemus's shadow turned and pounced on Michael as he fell, wrapping him in dark tentacles and sending more tentacles groping around the room, seeking. I hit the floor and one of the shadowy arms swept right over me. I looked for the Hunger but couldn't see it; either it was still veiled or it was simply hiding.

I'd lost contact with Molly when I fell, but I still had the knife. I began crawling toward Thomas. A dark object rolled into the room, but as I started to look toward it something hit the back of my head, slamming my face into the floor, and then there was a huge noise and a light that half-blinded me even with my head down. I blinked and winced and Thomas's Hunger slipped around my neck. A jolt of warmth went through me and my vision and hearing cleared.

"With me," it whispered. I closed my eyes and let it take me.

We slit Thomas's bonds (he didn't move) and then we were on our feet, the kukri in one hand and the boot knife in the other. Nicodemus shouted, harsh words that stripped away our veil and Molly's, but we had already nearly reached his stunned, blinded servants. A burst of gunfire interrupted Nicodemus and his voice choked off. Our first strike nearly took the first servant's head off; the boot knife went into his companion's spine, low on his neck, and lodged there.

Molly was chanting something. The red woman with the silver ribbons—no, they were _blades, _stained with blood—was facing her, held off by a dome of blue light. Nicodemus was turning toward the door, where a tall, dark-skinned man stood, sword in one hand, assault rifle in the other.

We grabbed our second victim's rifle, and fired two bursts, one into each of Nicodemus's two remaining servants. Our hand stayed on the paralyzed man for a moment and we tore his life out, filling us with strength and speed, and I laughed out loud.

Nicodemus's shadow reeled Michael in and held him, wrapped in darkness, feet just off the floor, like a shield between himself and the man in the doorway. One shadow-tentacle was wrapped around Michael's throat.

"Drop the weapons," Nicodemus said. "All of them."

"Fuck that," I said, and emptied the rifle into his back. He staggered slightly and his back turned scarlet, but that was all.

He didn't even spare us a glance as his shadow detached one tentacle from Michael and slapped us across the room. We hit hard, and the impact broke us apart, and when I rolled to a stop I was just me.

"Don't—" Michael choked out, and then a white streak ran up Nicodemus's leg, up his blood-soaked back to his head, and leaped free, trailing a length of grey cord. The Knight's gun barked twice, and Nicodemus jerked and toppled slowly. His shadow dropped Michael and flung all its tentacles at the Knight, who parried madly, his sword a wall of white light. The blade-haired woman screamed and turned away from Molly.

Molly spat a furious word and all the silver blades slapped together in a clump, as if magnetized. The demon-woman fought her way to Nicodemus, dragging the tangled metal ribbons like a wet blanket, and Nicodemus's shadow wrapped around both of them. They vanished.

There was a beat of complete silence, and then everything started moving again. Molly and the Knight ran to Michael. I ran to Thomas, and found him awake, curled on his side. He looked weak and shaky, but his smile was fierce and bright.

"Glad I lived to see that," he said. His voice was odd, weak and tuneless, and his face was blotchy and somehow off, like a reflection in an uneven mirror. "Where's—"

His Hunger climbed up my back and peered at him, still holding Nicodemus's raveled rope in its teeth. Thomas grinned again.

"Give it to Sanya," he suggested, and the Hunger skittered away. I didn't look, but I heard the big Knight's startled laugh behind me.

"Harry?" Thomas asked.

"Mab took him. He was still breathing. I told her about Butters and Listens-to-Wind at Molly's place. She sent us after you." I slid an arm under Thomas to help him sit up. He was heavy, and not able to help me much; his arms didn't seem to be working.

"Help me," I said over my shoulder, and the Hunger was back, slipping around my neck and flooding me with energy. It got easier each time, and I was really starting to like it. I got Thomas into a sitting position, then eased the Hunger out from around my neck.

"Here, take him back," I said, holding him out to Thomas.

"Wait," he said. He looked back and forth between us. "Stay... keep him. Stay together."

"What?" I asked. The Hunger zipped back up my arm and hid under my hair again.

"Keep him. It's what you wanted. Power. Your own power. Keep it."

"But... won't you die?"

I think he meant to shrug, but he barely twitched and then gasped and closed his eyes tight. "Eventually." He kept his eyes closed. "Doesn't matter," he said. I could feel his body heat through his shirt. Too hot. The blood oozing from the scrapes on his face and hands was too red. The angle of his shoulders was wrong, his hands loose, weak.

Helpless.

Prey.

"Stop that," I said to the Hunger, and to Thomas, "It matters to me. Can you stand up?"

"Not sure," he said.

"Thomas?" said a deep, accented voice, and the tall Knight—Sanya—stepped up to help us. He reached out a hand and froze.

"Interesting," he said, looking back and forth from me to Thomas. "How did this...? Never mind. We must go."

"I don't think I can walk," Thomas said.

"Go back now," I said to the Hunger. "Heal him."

"No," it said, wrapping more snugly around my neck.

"Little fucker," I muttered. "Can you carry him?" I asked the Knight, and he frowned, but nodded, sheathing his sword.

"I will have to put him down if we run into a fight," he said. He gently helped Thomas support each forearm with the opposite hand, then bent and picked him up bridal-style. He had, I noticed, beautiful broad shoulders, and his dark skin was smooth, streaked with sweat. I could smell him, feel the heat of him. Michael was surely protected, but this one... I scowled, shook my head sharply.

"Thanks," I said. I turned for the door. Molly had Michael's arm slung over her shoulders. He was leaning on her and limping, but seemed alert and strong. In his free hand he held the two swords that had been on the floor, bound together just below the hilts with his belt.

I retrieved my boot knife, wiped it and sheathed it. "Where are we?" I asked.

"Under Chicago," Sanya said. "Old tunnels. Up this way, then left, skip two rights, right. Entrance maybe forty, fifty meters after that."

"Do we have transportation?" Michael asked.

"Daniel drove me in your truck," said Sanya. "He is waiting for my call."

"I'll go in front," I said. "Got a light?"

"Here," said Sanya, handing me a flashlight. "But you are not a fighter."

I looked him in the eye. We whirled the kukri around us, behind us, overhead, in a hissing net of steel. The Knight shrugged and stepped aside.

To my disappointment, nothing challenged us or jumped us. We emerged from the tunnels into dim, drizzly daylight, and a battered white pickup with a dark-haired young man at the wheel pulled up to let us in. Michael and Molly rode in the cab; the rest of us huddled in the back, with a tarp to keep the rain off. I settled behind Thomas so he could lean on me and I could protect him somewhat from the jostling of the truck.

We arrived at Michael's house in about half an hour. A tall blonde woman, obviously Molly's mother, met us at the door. I could feel the threshold, like the heat from an open oven, and she didn't invite us in. Molly helped Michael (still carrying the swords) into the house; Sanya and Daniel unlocked a small outbuilding that turned out to be a workshop. Daniel dug out a cot and set it up, and Sanya carried Thomas in and set him down on it. After a while Molly's mother came in, carrying a first-aid case the size of an overnight bag. Daniel and Sanya exchanged a few murmured comments with her and left.

"We haven't met," she said to me. "I'm Charity. Michael told me what Thomas did. I came to see what I can do for him."

"What my demon did," Thomas corrected. "Don't worry, he wasn't striking a blow for righteousness or anything. It was personal revenge."

Charity eyed him. "I wasn't worried," she said. She squatted beside him but kept her hands in her lap. "Sanya said your demon had been... separated from you?"

Thomas nodded. "That's right. You won't burn me," he said.

"What happened to it?" she asked.

"He's with me," I said, and pulled back my hair so Charity could see the Hunger. It flinched back from her. I moved back to put more room between them.

"Nicodemus tore him out of me," Thomas said. "Either to disable me, or to make me an 'innocent' enough victim to desecrate the third Sword. I don't think he expected him to survive. Frankly, neither did I."

Charity was gently examining him, shaking her head as she did so. "Your shoulders are both dislocated," she said. "I'm not going to try to reduce them; it would probably do more damage. I can rig a sling for you, but you really need to be in a hospital."

"Thank you," he said. "Sling's good. Ice too, if you could. If you have painkillers, I wouldn't say no to those either."

She nodded, and fished out some pills and a small bottle of water. She held him up, gave him the pills and held the bottle for him to drink, then settled him back on the cot. She popped a couple of chemical cold packs and tucked them inside his shirt, then rigged a double sling for his arms.

"How's Michael?" I asked, as she started re-packing her bag.

"Defensive wounds on his hands and arms, and he has one bad gash on his head from when they jumped him," she said matter-of-factly. "He strained his hip, the damaged one, in the fight. But I think he'll be all right. Thank God."

"Molly?"

"She's not hurt. Just... shaken. Withdrawn. Maybe from being near Nicodemus and Dierdre. She said she'd be out to see you two once she's spoken with Michael and Sanya."

It occurred to me that this was the first time Charity had seen her daughter since she became the Winter Lady.

"Charity?" I said hesitantly. She looked back at me.

"She's still Molly," I said. "I knew her before. It's still her."

Charity looked down. "Thank you," she said softly, and left.

"Now," I said. I dragged the Hunger out from under my hair by his scruff and dropped him on the workbench. "Both of you. Talk to me."

"Leave him," said the Hunger. "We don't need him."

"I hate to say it," said Thomas, "but he's right. It'll be much simpler that way. He'll take care of you, keep you level. You can take over guarding Molly. With the Svartalves, you won't have any problem keeping him fed."

"And you?" I said. I was starting to get pissed off. "What will you do?"

"Survive," he said, showing his teeth in a grimace that barely resembled a smile.

"Fuck that," I said. I looked back and forth between them. "I fell in love with you together. With both of you. If you try to make me choose between you, I'll walk away from you both."

"You can't," they said as one.

"Like hell I can't," I said. "You want to try and stop me? Separately?" I looked at Thomas. "You can't even get up off that cot." Then at the Hunger. "You could kill me, probably. Though with Sanya and Molly out there, you'd have to be quick. You could enthrall me, but you'd have to keep it up constantly. I'd keep fighting. You wouldn't be able to feed on anyone but me, and I wouldn't last you very long."

"Without me, you'll lose your mind," the Hunger growled.

"You say that like it's a bad thing," I said. "I'm going to live forever. Could get boring."

"Justine," said Thomas.

"Besides, being crazy didn't stop Maeve, from what I hear," I said. "It might even help."

"Justine, don't," Thomas said. "The Fae will tear you to pieces. Take him with you."

"Both," I said. "Or neither."

"I will not share a skin with him," the Hunger said. "He tried to starve me. He starved Inari until half of her died. He'd starve all the young ones if he could. Even our own."

"That's not—" Thomas protested.

"I was _there_," the Hunger snarled, its fur standing on end. "You want to wipe us out."

"All I want is for them to have a choice."

"And what choice do we get? Die as soon as we wake, or never be born at all?"

"What choice do you give the ones you feed on? Die fast now, or die slow later?"

"What about your kills? We need never have killed at all after the first one, but you had to take on the Blacks, the Reds, the Fae, the naagloshii, our own family—"

"What about you? You almost killed Justine!" Thomas shouted, struggling to sit up without the use of his arms.

"_We_ almost killed Justine!" screamed the Hunger, and Thomas stopped halfway up. The two of them stared at each other, eyes wide, breathing hard.

"We," Thomas said. He closed his eyes for a moment and then nodded. "_We_ almost killed Justine. After I almost got us killed." He lay back down and turned his face away from us.

"But you didn't," I said into the silence. "And it wasn't me who stopped you. Or Harry."

"No," Thomas whispered. "It was us. It took both of us."

There was a moment of quiet, then the door was flung open and Molly came in. "I can feel you from inside the house," she said. "What's going on?"

"They don't want to go back together," I said. "They want me to keep the Hunger and dump the mortal half. I won't do it."

"I could kill him," the Hunger said, its fur still bristling.

"_Matte!_" Molly snapped, and I couldn't move. Judging by Thomas's expression and the Hunger's rigid crouch, neither could they.

Molly stood glaring at us for a moment, so tense that she trembled slightly. Then she rummaged in a tool drawer and came out with a thick piece of chalk. She bent down and began drawing a circle on the floor, around the three of us.

"What are you doing?" I asked.

"She's going to cut him off from the Nevernever," Thomas said. "His new body will dissolve back into ectoplasm."

The Hunger hissed, its tiny ears flat, its eyes narrowed to blazing slits.

"No," I said. Molly impatiently shoved some boxes out of the way and kept drawing. The circle was half-finished.

"Molly, don't," Thomas said. "Don't do this."

"Be still, Thomas," Molly said, still drawing. She stopped when only a small gap remained, and looked up at us again. "All three of you belong to me," she said, and I could hear the Winter Lady in her voice. "Thomas Raith. Rejoin and serve me, or die."

"Molly. Let them go," said a calm, quiet voice. Michael stood in the doorway.

"They are mine," the Winter Lady said, with the same cold anger I'd heard in Mab's voice.

"They're my guests," Michael said mildly. "This is my home. And I owe them a debt."

"What is that to me?" snapped the Lady.

"Molly. Let them go. Please," he said.

She laughed. "Who do you think I am?" she said.

"I know who you are," he said. "I saw."

Molly opened her mouth, hesitated.

"You are my beloved child," Michael said, stepping closer. "And you are God's beloved child. And nothing can change that."

Molly turned away, touched the chalk to one end of the nearly-closed line. "That would be more reassuring," she said, "if I didn't know you believe Nicodemus is also God's beloved child."

"So is Anduriel, for that matter," Michael said, unruffled. "But that's a little above my pay grade. Let them go."

"No," she said, and closed the circle. "I need them. There's no time for this. Last chance, Thomas."

Thomas and his Hunger looked at each other for a long moment. Then he looked at me.

"Bring him here, Justine," he said quietly. Molly snapped her fingers. I found I could move again, and I stepped toward him as slowly as I dared. I took the Hunger gently in my hands and stroked his fur one last time. I met Thomas's eyes. He glanced down at his lap, down at his right hand where it emerged from the sling, shielded from Molly's view. He was holding up three fingers. Then two. Then one. The Hunger tensed.

As Thomas folded down his index finger, he slung his legs off the cot, rolled onto the floor. He landed badly, squarely on his left shoulder, with a muffled yelp, but his heel scuffed the chalk mark, breaking the circle before Molly could activate it. At the same instant, I tossed the Hunger out of the circle and it flicked past Michael and out the open door like a stray thought.

Molly shrieked with rage and pointed after it, but Michael stepped in front of her outstretched hand, his own hands open, arms at his sides, unthreatening but determined.

"Don't," he said.

"There's no _time_," she said frantically, tears starting in her eyes. "They're coming. We're not ready. I have to—"

"It's never time to do the wrong thing," Michael said. "Trust me. God brought us together for a reason. Let us help." He held out his arms to her.

She swayed, irresolute, then stumbled forward and leaned against him, hiding her face against his chest.

He held her close and kissed the top of her head.

"Tell me what you need," he said.

"I have to find Harry," Molly said. "Nicodemus wasn't just after the Swords. He's attacking Winter. I have to find them, to stop them—"

"One thing at a time," Michael said. "We have no way of tracking Nicodemus, so let that go for now. Where do you think Harry might be?"

"Mab took him," I said. "To Molly's place. Her old place, here in Chicago."

"He was wounded," said Thomas.

"With iron," I said. "Mab couldn't heal him. But maybe Butters and Listens-to-Wind can. He asked them to meet us there, to help you. That's where we were headed when Nicodemus grabbed us."

"What—" Molly began, and then she stiffened, choked, and stumbled. Michael caught her, staggered briefly, then regained his balance. She made a small sound, a stifled wail.

"Hold on to her," said Thomas. "It'll pass. I've seen it happen to Harry, when he'd used the Sight on something nasty. It's like a flashback."

_Is it now_, I thought to myself. _Useful. _I knelt beside Thomas and helped him sit up again. He looked worse than before, grey-pale and sweating.

Molly seemed to be coming out of her flashback. She wiped her eyes and shook her head, murmured something to Michael, then looked back at us.

"This isn't over," she said. "But I don't have time to deal with you now."

"Let us help," said Thomas. "We can at least tell you what you missed." He winced as he said it, and sure enough, Molly clenched her teeth, closed her eyes and groaned.

"I'm sorry," said Thomas after a while, as Molly seemed to be coming back to herself.

"Only way out is through," Molly gasped. "Harry warned me."

"War council?" said Thomas to Michael, and Michael nodded.

"We'll come to you," he said. "Can I help you up?"

"That'd be good, thanks," said Thomas, a little breathlessly.

"Justine, can you get on his other side?" said Michael, and together we got Thomas to his feet, and helped him sit on the cot. He wavered a little, but was able to stay upright. I sat beside him, just in case, arm around his waist.

"Let's go get Sanya," Michael said, and led Molly back to the house.

"We should get you to a hospital," I said to Thomas. "As soon as we can."

"Can't," he said. "Too risky."

"Etri?" I said.

"What do I have to pay him with?"

"Me."

Thomas winced.

"What other choice do we have? Molly's no healer. Do you really want to call on Her Majesty?"

Thomas shook his head. "Maybe the E.R. then. Just to get the shoulders reset. Then maybe we can hole up somewhere for a while. With Harry, if he recovers. I'm no use to Molly like this, even if I were healed. She'll have to let us go."

"Unless your Hunger comes back."

He shook his head. "I've been trying to get free of it since the first time I woke up next to a corpse," he said. "Obviously it feels the same way about me. I know it's... he's... the part of me you need. I'm sorry."

"I don't actually _need_ either of you. The meds were no fun, but they were effective enough. And don't apologize. You're not the one who was threatening me."

He winced again. "Only because I know better than to think it might work."

I could hear footsteps and voices approaching from the house, so I held off on any further comment.

I paid scant attention to the 'war council'; I was more concerned with Thomas. He kept fading in and out, his eyes drooping. I didn't think whatever Charity had given him was that strong.

Michael volunteered to drive Molly to her old place. Sanya offered to ride shotgun, for defense. Michael vetoed that; he wanted Sanya to defend the house. Sanya argued that the house was already defended, that anything that could get past their "usual arrangements" plus Charity and Mouse was unlikely to be deterred by him. Michael responded that the Swords called for extra security. Sanya was beginning another objection when Thomas abruptly went limp and slid halfway to the floor.

Michael and I caught him and got him back on the cot. Michael checked his pulse, first at the neck and then in both wrists. He looked up at us. "Internal bleeding," he said. "Sanya, get out of range of Molly and call an ambulance. Justine, you ride with him. Molly, as soon as they're on their way I'll take you to Harry."

"Wait," Molly said. "They're too recognizable. Someone might spot them at the hospital. I know there's a bounty on Thomas, and Justine's known to be involved with him." She laid a hand on each of us and concentrated briefly. Thomas's hair turned dirty-blonde and his skin darkened, though there was still an unhealthy grey tinge under the tan. I pulled my hair around to look at it; dark brown, and straighter than it had been.

"Thanks," I said.

"It'll only last till sunrise," she said. "I'll try to get in touch with you before then."

Faintly, in the distance, I could hear the siren approaching.


	5. Chapter 5

**I woke up in the emergency department of Stroger Hospital, being wheeled down a hall on a gurney.**

I shut my eyes again almost as soon as I'd opened them, ignoring for the moment the insistent voice going "Sir? Sir. Open your eyes. Open your eyes and look at me," until I heard Justine say, "Jason?"

Right. Jason. One of my travel identities. I opened my eyes then, and there she was. I was briefly startled by her dark hair but then vaguely recalled hearing Molly say something about disguise. I must not have been out for long.

I shook off the pleasant, weightless sensation of severe blood loss long enough to prove I knew who (allegedly) and where I was (I had no idea of the date), and long enough to hear the word "surgery", and long enough to squeeze Justine's hand, and then I was gone again.

I woke up, too soon, in bed, in a small room. Justine was holding my hand again, and squeezing it too tightly as she whispered, "Thomas. Thomas, wake up. Wake up."

"Mm 'wake," I slurred. Ah. This must be what my brother referred to as 'the _good_ drugs'. I'd never been in a position to find out before.

"Wake up. We need to move," said Justine.

"... surgery?" I asked vaguely.

"Yes. You had a torn artery in your left shoulder. You lost a lot of blood. But we need to go."

"Wh... how come?" I asked, not feeling any particular urgency.

"Because when I was coming back from the bathroom, there was a guy in the hall talking on his cell phone, and I could lipread him, and he said 'Thomas Raith'."

"...shit," I said profoundly. "Okay. Clothes?"

She smiled and produced a set of institutional-green scrubs.

She pulled back the sheet and blanket and I gazed blurrily down at myself.

I had an IV (plasma? Saline? Something clear, anyway) in the back of my right hand; both my arms were in slings. What I could see of my chest was stained with some orange chemical. I had bandages below my left collarbone and in my armpit. There were various bruises and scrapes, unimportant but for the way they underlined my new vulnerability.

I wasn't healing.

Well, I suppose I was, at the usual glacial pace of a vanilla mortal. But it was unsettling. Just like the weakness, the blurry vision and muffled hearing, and the almost complete loss of my sense of smell. Worst, the sea of emotion that had enveloped me all my adult life, sustenance and knowledge and power, was entirely gone. With the drugs keeping the pain at bay, I felt almost disembodied.

And I was alone in my head. For the first time ever.

I closed my eyes again. I couldn't feel Justine. When she touched me I actually jumped, startled.

Justine was slipping the scrub pants on me; I helped her as much as I could. "I grabbed a wheelchair," she said. She helped me sit up, then helped me into the chair. Even leaning heavily on her, I barely managed to stand for the necessary few seconds.

She'd found some scissors somewhere; she slit the over-large scrub shirt up the front from hem to neck. She draped it around me, wrapped the front like a kimono over my arms, slings and all, and secured it with a safety pin. It didn't look much like real clothes, but at least it wasn't a hospital gown. Fortunately she'd held on to my boots, though the rest of my clothes were pretty much a loss.

"I think I found a back door we can use. It's ID-locked to get in, but not out. No alarm."

"... time is it?"

"Two-twenty a.m. Middle of the shift. Pretty quiet." She pulled the blanket off the bed, folded it and draped it around me. She looked critically up at the IV bag.

"I guess we can take that with us. The pole's too awkward, but I can hang it around your neck and cover it up with the blanket."

"M'kay." Now that I was still and almost warm, I was drifting off again. Good drugs. Nice drugs. At this rate I'd sleep through my own death. And Justine's.

That last thought, at least, helped me pry my eyelids open and keep them that way. "So wha's the plan?" I asked her.

She'd started undressing, changing into another set of scrubs, this one dark blue. "I stole a purse," she said. "I've got a phone and some money for a cab." She rummaged in the bedside drawers and came out with a second blanket, which she folded and slung over her right shoulder, where it concealed her lack of ID badge. "I'll wheel you down to the elevator, then hide you in a bathroom on the first floor. Once the hallway's clear to the exit, we'll go." She frowned at her soft leather boots. "These aren't very nurse-like."

"Trust me, nobody's going to be looking at your feet," I said.

She glanced over at me and smiled. "Sweet," she said.

Her dark hair, her untroubled smile: I felt dizzy suddenly, as if the last ten years had been a dream; as if we'd just met and nothing had been decided, nothing lost.

"Okay, let's go," said Justine. She looked out the door, then opened it wide and backed me out of the room.

No one glanced at the pretty nurse and her insomniac patient as she rolled me down the hall and into the staff elevator.

Once in the elevator, she said, "I tried Murphy and Butters. Both numbers rolled over to voicemail. So I guess we'll head back to Molly's parents' house. At least we know it's defended."

"Sounds good," I said. I was getting sleepy again. She stowed me in the visitors' bathroom; I managed to lock the door (not easy when you can't raise either arm; try it) but almost immediately started nodding off. I hitched myself awkwardly to my feet and leaned my back against the door. At least this way maybe I could stay awake listening for her knock.

I did. And when she knocked I managed to turn the lock again, though it was ridiculously difficult and painful, and I was so, so tired of this mortal shit and I just wanted to _sleep_.

Soon. Down a short hallway. Out the unguarded door. Down the sidewalk to a curb cut where our cab waited, and Justine had just locked the brakes on my chair and opened the cab's door when it all fell apart.

Two indistinct forms came up behind us, almost silently (maybe I could have heard them if the Hunger had still been with me). One pointed a gun at the driver and waved him away; he drove off immediately. The other stood back a little, pointing a gun at me, and said, "Mr. Raith. Long time no see."

"Fuck," I said under my breath.

"Hands behind your head, please," said the man with the gun, pleasantly. His partner moved around so that either of them had a clear shot at either of us, without risking hitting each other.

"Not to be difficult, but I can't actually do that," I said.

"Oh really," said the gunman. He turned the gun on Justine. "How about now?"

"Don't. Please," she said, every inch the terrified doe. "He really can't. His arms are dislocated."

"How unfortunate," said the gunman. "All right, then, we can dispense with the 'hands up' part. You—" he nodded to Justine—"push the wheelchair. We're all going to our car. If anyone makes a sudden move, I'll shoot you. This would be tragic for you, but no particular loss to us. Is that clear?"

"Crystal," I said. Justine nodded, her dark eyes huge and glassy. She almost convinced me, and I've seen her at work.

It's awkward to get into a car without using your hands or arms. The drugs didn't help any. I tried to remember if I'd seen either of these two before: the woman now sliding into the driver's seat of the white Lexus was young, middle-sized, and very dark, with neatly cornrowed hair. The guy sharing the back seat with us was older, mid-forties maybe, with a ruddy face, short-cropped, salt-and-pepper hair, and a seemingly permanent look of ironic amusement.

"Who do you work for?" I asked.

Thug One barked out a short laugh. "Christ, you don't remember me, do you? And here I got this break on account of you recruited me personally, so I recognized your face when they brought you in."

Fuck. "You're from the Domicile," I said.

"The Barns, you mean," said Thug Two. She started the car and pulled out of the parking lot. We headed south on Cicero.

Justine pressed up against me, shivering. I leaned my head toward her, but Thug One tsked and made a "no-no" gesture with his gun barrel.

"Nope," he said. "No contact. Can't have you recharging and evening the odds."

"Sorry, love," I murmured, as we leaned away from each other. On the one hand, I was relieved that they didn't know how helpless I actually was. On the other hand, there was a distinct possibility that they'd accidentally kill me, if they handled me as roughly as I could normally take.

Justine made a little whimper and curled up in the seat, still shivering, tucking up her feet and hugging her knees. She was still wearing her Winter boots, and I remembered there was a knife sheath in the left one—the side away from our captor.

"Cold," she said, in a pouty-little-girl voice.

Like hell she was cold, with Molly's tattoo on her. (Why was I cold? I decided to worry about that later.) "Shh," I said, as if soothing some idiot thrall. "You can go home soon. Put on your ermine stole and that necklace you got from the Queen. We'll go dancing."

She closed her eyes and made a hopeful, half-witted little hum that nearly made me snicker. The two thugs rolled their eyes at each other. I kept a straight face while envisioning Justine dancing on the graves of all her foes. With a silver-eyed demon familiar to remember me by.

"So who are you selling me to?" I asked. "The Fomor will offer you a good price, but they're likely to just shoot you instead of paying you. And Lara may get annoyed if you didn't clear it with her first."

"Lara," said Thug Two, giving the name a snide twist, "isn't around."

"More driving, less talking," said Thug One, and the driver shut up.

Oho. Who was trying to steal a march on Lara? My bet was on one of the young ones. The ones with any experience or power, like Natalia and Elisa, all had more sense than to try. Unless it was someone in Skavis. Or Malvora. Or both. My skin crawled.

"My allies can probably outbid your buyer," I offered.

Both thugs laughed. "No. They really can't," said Thug One.

"Well, _technically_..." said Thug Two.

"Would you trust him?" her partner asked.

"Hell no," she said.

"There you go, then," he said, and to me: "No deals. Shut up now."

We drove the rest of the way to the Domicile in silence. Justine had never been there. I inhaled a little more sharply than usual to let her know we were getting close; she swallowed to acknowledge the signal.

When the car pulled up to the curb Justine had her boot knife in her left hand, hilt cupped in her palm, blade lying along her wrist. I didn't see it, but I heard the yelp as she spun and slashed at Driver Thug halfway through unfolding my wheelchair, and then took to her heels. Backseat Thug had been caught off-guard, and he didn't get a shot off before she turned the corner. With a muttered "Fuck!" he set off after her, but I saw the flash of light from the alley and I knew she was already gone.

_Thanks, Mom, _I thought, and had just time to brace myself before the other thug hauled me out of the car by my fucking elbow. I managed not to scream. I have my pride.

"So hard to get reliable help," I gasped, and she gave me a vicious little shake that made my knees buckle. Her gun barrel pressed up under my ear helped me focus again.

"Gone," said Thug One, returning. He glared furiously at me. "How did she do that?"

"Maybe she's a wizard," I said. "Maybe she's gone for reinforcements. Maybe you should cut your losses."

"Maybe we should blow your head off right now," he said, already more controlled. "Pay's not as good, but it's a lot less work." He cocked his head at his partner. She appeared to consider.

"Toss him in with the other one," she suggested. "If things go south, we won't be there. Let Security handle it."

"I like this plan," he said. "Let's go."

They half-dragged me, careful not to touch my bare skin (I almost laughed), through the main entrance, down one hall and to a door that had a hastily-added deadbolt on the outside. Thug One opened the lock and his partner shoved me through the door. I landed face-down and there wasn't room to process anything but pain/cold/pain as I tried to remember how to breathe. The door slammed, the lock clicked, and someone in the room with me shouted after the thugs' retreating footsteps.

"Fuck you, you spineless bootlickers. You're snatching people from hospitals now?" It was a woman's voice. Vaguely familiar.

I heard a metallic sound. Chains, dragging on the floor? The floor was linoleum. Cheap. Easy to clean. Cold. I tried to gasp. Nothing happened.

"Shit," the voice continued more quietly. "Hey. Buddy. I'm gonna help you, but I can't quite reach you. Little help here?"

I was still trying to inhale.

"Goddamn cold-blooded slave-raping parasites," the voice muttered. "I'm going to kill every last fucking one of you." It was the disgusted, matter-of-fact tone that let me place who she was, and I finally got my lungs to work.

"Present company excepted, Karrin?" I wheezed.

_"Thomas?"_ she said.

"Yeah," I said. "Some of me, anyway."

I heard a little scuffling noise and the clink of her chain as she retreated. Then silence. I thought about trying to turn over, but as soon as I made the first hint of a motion, pain and nausea swept over me. I discarded it as a bad idea.

"Let me see your eyes," Murphy said. I strained to lift my head, craning my neck till I could look at her. She crouched with her back to the wall, a length of chain in her hand. One end was shackled to her ankle, the other attached to the floor. She was wearing something black, lacy, and completely unsuited to her. I felt embarrassed to be associated with our captors.

"God. What happened to you?" she asked.

"Nicodemus," I said.

She let out a shuddering breath. "He has the Swords."

"Had," I said. "Michael got them back." Then I couldn't hold my head up any more and I dropped it back to the floor and tried to breathe evenly.

"Oh thank God," she said, and I heard the chain clash as she dropped it.

"Sanya put two bullets in Nicodemus," I added. "His demon yanked him out through a gate, though, so he's probably not dead."

"I thought he was invulnerable."

"He was, till someone helpfully removed his magic necktie."

I could hear her fierce grin in her voice. "Remind me to kiss whoever it was."

I laughed, sort of. It didn't come out too well. "Funny story," I said. The drugs had pretty much worn off. I could feel damp warmth seeping into my bandages. I hoped it was sweat.

Vaguely I became aware that Murphy was calling my name. "Stay with me. Thomas. Can you get closer?"

I managed to get one leg up under me, my boot toe on the floor. I pushed, and slid forward a little. It hurt. I groaned. I did it again, and Murphy's hand brushed my hair.

"One more time," she said. "Where are you hurt?"

I pushed again and my vision whited out briefly. I spent some time panting, until I could see again and the sound of my breathing wasn't echoing so strangely. "Both shoulders dislocated and reset. Torn artery in the left one, repaired a couple hours ago."

She was silent for a moment. "If I... is it...?"

"What?" I said, and then I realized what she was asking. "It's gone, Karrin. The Hunger. Nicodemus tore it out of me. I'm plain vanilla."

"Christ," she said.

"Not sure whether to say 'sorry' or 'you're welcome,'" I said into the floor. It came out a little slurred.

"I'm going to pull you a little closer," she said. "Relax and don't try to help me." She grasped me firmly but carefully around the back of my head and neck and gave a slow, steady pull that slid me forward without hurting much at all. The chain around her ankle clinked. "Okay. I'm going to roll you over. Try to keep your back straight, keep your hips and shoulders in line. Understand?"

"Nnh. Yeah." Things were getting vague, though they sharpened up again when she moved me and I couldn't hold back a pitiful little yelp.

"There. Done. Breathe," Karrin said. She unpinned my shirt and peeled it back gently. "One of your incisions is bleeding, but it doesn't look too bad," she reported. "I'm going to put some pressure on it. It's going to hurt."

"Yes ma'am," I said, keeping my teeth clamped down on any further embarrassing noises. She worked the shirt out from under me and tore a couple of strips off it, then folded the rest into a pad and tucked it carefully under my arm. Then she pressed my arm into my chest and I think I passed out for a few seconds. When I was aware of my surroundings again, my arm was back in its sling, with an extra strip of cloth binding the upper arm to my chest.

"How'd you end up here?" I asked her.

"Felicia," she said, her face twisted in an expression of hatred and loathing. "I think she cut a deal with Nicodemus. He got the Swords, she got me."

I hesitated. "Did she...?"

"Yeah," said Murphy. She couldn't meet my eyes, and her voice shook a little. "Twice so far."

"Shit," I said. She didn't respond. Felicia had fed on her twice, and she still had to be leg-shackled? My estimation of her, already high, went up another notch.

"What'd you ever do to her?" I asked. I'd been out of it for a while when Harry was gone, but to the best of my recollection Felicia had been working with the Brighter Future Society.

"Smashed her face into a coffee table," Murphy said. I laughed for real that time, and though it hurt like hell I didn't care.

"What? Why? And how?"

"It was my coffee table. She was inside my threshold at the time. And she'd found out about the Swords from something a junior idiot let slip, and was trying to blackmail me into letting her feed on me. I objected."

"Oh Christ. I wish I'd seen her face."

Murphy smiled slowly. "It was rather satisfying," she said. Then she sobered. "But ultimately it was childish, stupid, and costly." She leaned back and studied me. "This has probably outlived its usefulness," she said, pointing at the IV. "Want me to take it out?"

"Yeah," I said. She did, and the tiny sting was almost unnoticeable. As soon as it was over, though, I felt a tingling rush and abruptly I wasn't cold any more. Still miserably weak, disabled, and half-dead with pain and exhaustion, but hey.

"Hah," I said. "Okay. I'm an idiot. Maybe Harry comes by it honestly."

"What?" Murphy asked.

"Cold iron," I said. "Molly... never mind. There's some Fae stuff going on. It didn't occur to me that having a piece of steel inserted in me would interfere. Not important, except that we might be getting some help soon."

"Good," Murphy said.

I began to drift off again.

"Don't sleep yet," Murphy said. "Tell me how Michael got the Swords back."

I did, to the extent that I'd followed what had happened. I wasn't clear on how Molly had been brought back to herself, but from what Michael had said I suspected she'd soulgazed him. I should have asked Justine, but we'd been busy. As I talked, Murphy retreated through a doorway (the door had been removed) and came back with a rolled-up piece of eggcrate foam. She spread it out on the floor and helped me onto it.

"Wow," she said, when I'd finished my recap. "Things move fast."

"Yeah," I said. "Listen, Karrin. When Felicia shows up, let me take point. I can probably keep her off you, at least for a while. I might be able to distract her enough for you to jump her."

"I don't have a chance in hell of beating her," Murphy said.

"Not true. If you hit her hard enough and fast enough, you might be able to kill her before her Hunger can heal her. But you'll have to kill her. Do you understand? Crippling her, even breaking her neck, won't be enough. You'll have to more or less tear her head off."

She looked ill. "Specifically that?"

"No, not necessarily. Destroy the brain stem, lungs, or heart. Exsanguination will do it, but it's got to be pretty thorough, especially if she's well-fed. Decapitation's safest and surest."

"I'm fresh out of machetes, axes and guillotines," she said.

"Wire," I said. "In the walls, or from the ceiling fixture. Garrote."

"Hard to get hold of without electrocuting myself," she said.

"Reminds me. Electrocution works too," I said. "If you can manage not to zap yourself." I took a brief look around. "Is there a mirror?"

"I thought of that," she said. "No good. Steel, and bolted down flush to the wall."

"These rooms weren't meant to be cells," I said. "You might be able to break loose a piece of lumber from one of the walls."

She studied me. "I really don't think I want to know how you know that. But anyway, already done." She went back into the other room (half-bath, I remembered from the blueprints) and came back with a piece of two-by-four about two feet long.

"Nice," I said.

"I doubt she'll give me the chance to use it," she said, scowling. "I tried hand-to-hand the first time, and with the chain after she put me on it. She stopped me both times before I could get to her."

I frowned. That didn't fit. Murphy was clearly not enthralled. "She had help?"

Murphy shook her head. "She had a Taser."

My mouth dropped open and I stared like an idiot. "That..." I said. "She..." I gave up, shaking my head. _Empty night, Felicia, you're a fucking __**vampire**__, _I thought._ Ur doin it rong. _But I doubted Murphy would sympathize with my offended sensibilities.

"When's the last time she was here?"

She thought about it. "Not sure. Maybe... five or six hours ago?"

"Good. That gives us some time."

"What if she decides to feed on you?"

"Heh," I said. "She's welcome to try." Though the Taser was not a pleasant thought.

"But you said your Hunger was gone."

"Don't need it," I said.

She scowled and looked away, biting her lip. She looked furious. And ashamed. It finally seeped through my fatigue- and pain-riddled skull what was bothering her.

"Karrin. How long have you been studying aikido?" I asked her.

"Since I was eleven," she said.

_Note to self, do not mix it up with Murphy,_ I thought, then said, "And someone with no training, no matter how brave and determined they are, they're never going to be a match for you. Am I right?"

"Broadly speaking," she said. "What are you getting at?"

"My Hunger woke when I was fifteen. I've been fighting it ever since. Every day. Felicia's a spoiled little princess. She's probably fed mostly on thralls. She's never had any reason to restrain herself, never gone after anything more powerful than a vanilla mortal. She has no idea how much resistance is possible. If she used a Taser on you, it's because she thinks she can't control you. She's probably right."

Murphy studied me. "What if she Tasers you?"

"Then you beat her brains out with the two-by-four and drag me out of here."

"Sounds like a plan," she said, and the corner of her mouth crooked up in a hint of a smile.

"Try not to get too much blood on her clothes," I suggested. "That ensemble is so not you."

"I didn't pick it out," she said. "But fair warning—criticize my haircut and I'll make you walk home."

"Noted," I said, and then I tried to think of what to say next, and then I fell asleep.


	6. Chapter 6

Wherever we were, it was daytime there, and a lot warmer than Chicago. I took a second to look around. Trees. Grass. I heard water running somewhere nearby.

"Don't waste time," said Thomas's mother's voice in my head. "Move. Head downhill, and turn right when you get to the three boulders. Don't get too close to the stream when you see it."

"Where are we?" I muttered, not wanting to attract attention.

"Summer," she said. "This is the surest way back to the Knight's house, but not without peril. Go quickly, but don't run unless I tell you to. Don't speak, and don't touch anything."

I nodded and started walking down the grassy slope. I didn't exactly trust her (she'd abandoned a five-year-old to House Raith), but she was the only guide I had, and she did seem at least somewhat invested in Thomas's and Harry's survival.

The light was golden like sunlight, but I couldn't see the sun; it was as if the entire sky were one big light source. Maybe it was just some odd sort of overcast I'd never seen before. There were shadows, but they didn't look right; some things had more than one, some seemed not to have any. The wind rustled in the bushes and grass and trees, and the water gurgled, but there were no other sounds. Birds, or things that looked like birds, flicked across the bits of open sky between trees, and little black and silvery shapes like insects zipped by, but there was no chirping or buzzing.

As I walked, I braided my hair (still dark; Molly's glamour had apparently survived the trip into the Nevernever) and wrapped it around my neck to hide the bit of my tattoo that showed above the neck of my scrubs. Walking around Summer uninvited, wearing Winter's insignia, seemed like a bad idea. I made sure Harry's pentacle was tucked under my shirt.

"Keep following the stream, but stay well back from the verge," said Thomas's mother. I nodded again. A couple of times I heard a musical _cloop_ sound over the background chatter of the stream, but I avoided looking at it. Anything here that wanted my attention was going to have to work for it.

Already I was seeing flickers of light and motion out of the corners of my eyes, and random arrangements of light and shadow, leaf, bark and stone, that invariably looked like faces until I turned my gaze toward them. I was used to seeing faces in random shapes—the grain of a wooden door, stains on a brick—but these were _everywhere_. I shivered a little and tried not to keep looking, but it was difficult. My heart sped up and I felt a fleeting yearning for Thomas. _He can't help you any more,_ I told myself. _Help him instead. While you still can._

There was a distinct path now, down by the very edge of the stream. I stayed off it. To my left the ground sloped up sharply. Dense bushes, ten or fifteen feet tall, crowded the steep hillside, filling in nearly all the space between the trees. In the deep shade, their leaves looked almost black. Looking ahead, I could see that what little open ground remained would soon disappear. I'd either have to squeeze through the tightly-woven branches (probably leaving blood behind that could be used to track me, enchant me or just kill me), take the ever-narrowing path right next to the stream and whatever lived in it, or turn back, head up the slope and try to find a way around.

And as soon as I thought that, there they were, unavoidably blocking my path: three slim, grey-brown girls with deep green hair who looked about ten years old—if you ignored their eyes.

"Hail, stranger," said one of them in a lovely, musical voice. I bowed my head slightly, but stayed mute.

"She who would pass through our lands must pay toll to us," said the second. I nodded.

"What have you to offer us, pretty mortal?" said the third.

I bent and pulled the knife from my boot—slowly, with only two fingers. I held it up and then laid it flat on the ground, point toward the stream, hilt toward the rocky slope, so that it threatened neither the girls nor me.

The first girl picked up the knife and nodded. "Well-wrought," she said, "and not of mortal make. For my part, you may pass. But my sisters remain."

Thomas's mother remained silent. I reached up under my braid and palmed the pentacle as I unfastened its silver chain. I kept the pentacle clutched tightly in my hand as I unthreaded the chain and laid it on the ground in a neat spiral. Clockwise, for luck. Spiraling outward, for escape.

"Pretty," said the second girl. "And it savors of the Art." She picked up the chain, unwinding the spiral methodically, and fastened it around her neck. "For my part, you may pass. But my sister remains."

"One gift that was yours to give," said the third girl. "One lent by another, that can yet be spared. What else do you have, I wonder?"

In answer, I stepped slowly forward, bent down, and kissed her. Her arms twined around my neck and locked there, like smooth, strong branches warmed by the sun. She tasted like honey with a tang of something bitter and harsh, and her kiss was not at all childlike, despite her size. My lips tingled slightly. Eventually she let me go, but as she stepped back I caught her wrist and turned her palm upward. She had a strand of my hair between her finger and thumb. I looked a question at her.

She smiled, displaying teeth too sharp and white to be human. She offered the hair to me and I took it, wrapping it around my right thumb while keeping the pentacle enclosed in my hand.

"A perilous gift," she said, "yet not as foolish as might be. Pass, pretty one."

I bowed without taking my eyes off them, and so I saw them vanish into shafts of sunlight, leaving a sparse cloud of little drifting motes behind. Like the leaves, the dappled shadows, the ripples on the water, the tiny particles made faces that shifted and blended into more faces, always changing, moving, staring. I made myself look away, but anywhere my eyes rested, the faces thronged around the edges where I couldn't quite see them. I bit my lip, and the pain helped me focus a little better. The bitten place felt numb, vaguely wrong.

"Thomas might have chosen worse," murmured his mother in my head. I looked up-slope and then down the path, and shrugged.

"Keep moving," she said. "Take the path, but go quickly."

Faces surrounded me; and now there were voices too, murmuring and jeering in the water, hissing in the rustling leaves. My heart pounded and the palm of my right hand, tightly clutching Harry's pentacle, was sweating. Something nagged at my memory: I had been here before, somehow. Suddenly I got it, and I laughed out loud. The sound echoed off the hillside, and in its wake there was a sudden, stunned silence. The voices stopped; the faces wavered and blurred.

_This is just like home,_ I thought, and I bared my teeth in a defiant grin. _You're just like the Raiths. Look all you want, whisper all you want. If you could just walk up and take me, you wouldn't waste time with this crap._

"Good," Thomas's mother whispered in my mind. "Get ready to run."

There was a series of rhythmic splashes behind me. I kept walking and didn't look back.

"Not yet," whispered Thomas's mother. "Not yet... go!"

I sprinted down the narrow path, as behind me there was a huge surge, like a breaking wave, then a scrambling, thudding sound that resolved into the pounding of feet. Hooves.

"Between the two oaks, ahead to the left. A hollow. See it?"

I nodded, and pushed myself into high gear. The hoofbeats were gaining rapidly. I dove headlong into the shady gap between the two huge trees, and I heard teeth snap at my heels, and then I was tumbling on wet asphalt in the dark, in the cold rain, and the sound of the Metra was loud in my ears. I scrambled to my feet, put my back to a dumpster, curled up in a tight ball and laughed and cried until I couldn't breathe.

My lips tingled. My hands tingled. My feet tingled. I looked up at the streetlight against the asphalt-dark sky, and it split into two and wavered drunkenly. I dragged myself to my feet, staggering a little, my balance uncertain. I checked my pockets. The cash and cell phone I'd stolen in the hospital were, miraculously, still there. I had to close one eye to see the phone keys clearly.

Three minutes. Five. Nine. The cab pulled up to the curb. I got up deliberately, carefully. It wouldn't do to look like a drunk or a junkie. In my bedraggled scrubs, at least "whore" wouldn't be anyone's first guess. I strolled to the cab, standing tall but not too tense, and I had the little sheaf of bills in my hand as the driver slowly rolled down her window.

She eyed me suspiciously. "Funny place to call a cab," she said, glancing around the dark, empty parking lot.

"I got mugged," I said. "They got my purse, but I had my phone and cash in my pocket."

The driver frowned. "You okay, honey?" she asked, and this time she sounded a little more like a concerned teacher and less like store security.

"I'm okay. I just need to get to my friends' house and get dried off and call the cops from there. Rough night, you know?"

The driver snorted. "I guess. Hop in."

I crawled more than hopped, and I gave her the Carpenters' address. I was dizzy and queasy, and the tingling in my fingers and toes was spreading up my arms and legs, getting stronger, progressing through pins-and-needles to numbness. By the time we got to the Carpenters' place, I had to grab the side of the cab to keep from falling when I shut the door.

I didn't see or hear Sanya approach; he was just there, suddenly, a strong hand under my arm. I heard the rumble of his voice as he thanked the driver, but I couldn't make out more than one word in three. I closed my eyes against the swirl and tilt of the landscape as my stomach lurched. The cab drove off, its exhaust nearly making me gag.

"Thomas," I said, and my speech was slurred, my tongue numb. "The White Court has him. Warehouse on Cermak. Near Halsted. Not your fight, I know. Tell Molly. Or Harry."

"What happened to you?" the Knight asked. I tried not to stumble on the walk up to the front door. It was hard, even leaning on him.

"Poisoned, I think," I said. My legs went out from under me, and if he hadn't been ready to catch me I'd have fallen face-first.

"Here," he said, and started to scoop me up in his arms, but I shook my head. "Wait."

I had to use my left hand to pry the fingers of my right open. The pentacle fell to the walkway with a dull clink. "Harry's," I said. "Don't touch. Dangerous." I looked up at him to be sure he understood, and he nodded. He pulled out a handkerchief and wrapped it around the pentacle and stowed it somewhere. Then he scooped me up like an armful of laundry, and started up the steps.

"No," I said, and shook my head hard though it made me sick and dizzy. "Not inside the threshold. Outside. In case he comes back."

"You need tending," he said, but he set me down on the small front porch, mostly out of the rain.

"Won't make any difference, I think," I said, but I was probably too garbled to understand. The visions started then, and I gave up on everything but breathing and trying not to scream.

Again, the world was full of faces and voices, but this time I knew them all. Madrigal. Madeleine. Lord Raith. Bianca. Nicodemus. The skinwalker. Maeve. My first pimp. My mother. My father. And my own personal demon, the voice of my fear and despair, the voice that even Thomas couldn't silence for long.

_Stupid. Worthless. Filth. Trash. There is no help. There is no god. There is no place but Hell._

"Thomas loves me," I whispered.

_Thomas is dead, torn to pieces and dead, tortured, bleeding and dead, abandoned and dead. Eaten alive, slowly. You ran away and left him and he died. You should die too._

Faintly behind the malicious whispering I heard Sanya call "Michael!" and I felt my heart slow and stutter.

"Thomas loved me," I mouthed, but I had no breath to say it. The faces sneered, the voices laughed. Behind them, in the shadows, I saw one form I didn't recognize, not moving, a solemn, slender, dark-skinned shape that could have been male or female, old or young.

"Who are you?" I asked. My lips didn't move. I was so tired.

"Your escort," the dark one said quietly. "When this is over I will take you where you should go."

_When this is over,_ the voices jeered, _there will only be more of the same. The pain, the shame, will go on and on and on_.

I ignored them as best I could. "Thomas," I said. "Take me where you took him."

The figure shook its head. "I cannot."

"Please."

"I cannot," the dark one repeated firmly. "Thomas Raith has not yet died."

I sucked in a deep breath, maybe the first in a long while.

_He'll be dead soon,_ the voices said. _And he will die again and again. You will watch him die ten thousand times. He will scream for you, and curse you when you don't answer._

I tried not to listen. "I'll stay," I told the dark one. "I'll stay here." _Here_ was the floor of ice in Mab's ballroom. A troll had me pinned with one tree-like arm, crushing my chest to the ground, and Thomas lay beside me, sightless eyes open, arms torn off, bleeding, but he was still bleeding, his heart was still beating. My own heart struggled to beat against the pressure. I had no breath. My vision swam, dark clouds like blood in deep water, and there was a confused noise and I thought I heard someone counting, breathlessly, and I felt my ribs crack, and then there was a white roaring—

The babble of hatred and contempt, the leering, taunting faces, came back again, but now they were like a washed-out movie with a scratchy soundtrack, playing on a screen a long way off, while around me, behind me, normal voices spoke softly to each other. I strained to hear them, the voices that weren't talking to me.

Thomas's voice, strong and sure, said _This is my house._

Karrin Murphy, matter-of-fact, businesslike: _In aikido we say, if your enemy has a weapon, then you have a weapon._

A cool, regal voice, Mab's voice, said _Power itself is only a tool; it is the hand that wields it that matters._

Waldo Butters, annoyed and frustrated, snapped _Molly, if you don't get out of my way I'll staple you to a goddamn chair,_ and an older, calmer voice said, _Better do what he says, little sister, I wouldn't put it past him._

There was a silence, then a rhythmic creaking that went on for a time. Then an old, old voice, bitter and tired, spat viciously, _Oh_, that _will end well—you are what you eat._

Another voice, warmer though no less ancient, said _Nonsense. What is eating but transformation, life into death into life? _

The creaking stopped suddenly, and the first voice said, _Someone is listening at the door. Take this word home with you, least of my children: Margaret LeFay did better than she knew. The stars know both her sons._

Then, in my ears and not my mind, a weary voice, Michael's voice, strained and anxious, said _Justine, stay here, stay with us, hold on—_

And Sanya's warm bass, a little breathless, said _Michael, look!_

And Michael said _Move back—_

—and Thomas, my Thomas, was there, strong and cool and reassuring, and he touched my cheek and said _Justine._ The pain dwindled, the voices faded. My heart skipped, skipped again, then settled into a steady beat and I breathed in and out, almost without hurting at all.

"Stay," I said. I was too tired to open my eyes. "He's always afraid you'll hurt me, but I know you won't."

"I will stay," he said, and I sighed and slept.

I couldn't have been out for long. When I woke up the sky was lighter; I guess the sun had risen because my hair was white again. I was still on the porch, lying on my side, wrapped in an old wool blanket, scratchy but warm, with a throw pillow under my cheek. Thomas's Hunger was curled up against me, nestled against my breasts. Sanya was sitting with his back against the front door, watching us, as the Hunger watched him in turn, bright eyes unblinking.

"He wouldn't let us bring you in," the Knight said, "even though we offered to let him come in with you."

"That's okay," I said. "Thank you." I pushed back the blanket and sat up, cradling the Hunger in one arm. I felt weak, but nothing hurt. I suspected that was because it wasn't being allowed to.

"You should rest," Sanya said, frowning.

"I can't," I said. "I have to go help Thomas. The other part of him."

The Hunger hissed quietly.

"You shut up," I told him sternly. "We're not leaving him there. The two of you can settle your differences later. Either help me, or go back to wherever you were hiding."

"I was not hiding," said the Hunger. "I was hunting."

"I think we will all be happier if I ignore that," said Sanya. "Justine, you have broken ribs. If you get hit, even lightly, it could puncture a lung."

"I hear you," I said. And to the Hunger: "Can you use me anyway? I mean, is there enough to work with?"

It hissed again.

"I'll do it without you if I have to."

"Firearms," it spat. "I can aim for you. I will not help you break yourself."

"Has there been any word from Molly?" I asked.

Sanya shook his head. "We know that she arrived safely and that Harry is still alive, but that was the last we heard."

"Just us, then," I said, and I got cautiously to my feet. The Hunger ducked behind my neck and clung there.

"No," Sanya said. "Not just you."

The door opened (the Hunger and I both flinched back from the threshold) and Michael and Charity stepped out. Charity was tightening the shoulder strap on her Kevlar vest. She had a web belt with a pistol on the right and a machete on the left. Michael handed her the heavy duffel bag he was carrying, and kissed her forehead.

"Take care," he said.

"You too," she said. "I'll try not to total your truck." She glanced over at me. "I wasn't sure what weapons to bring for you, so I brought an assortment. You can look through them while I drive. There are sweats in there too, that should fit. They're Matthew's. Ready?"

"This isn't your fight," I said to her.

"It most certainly is," she said. "Thomas helped us get Molly back from Arctis Tor, and all of you got Michael and Molly and the Swords back from Nicodemus. The Knights may have a very specific mission, but I'm not one of them."

"Thank you," I said.

"You're welcome," she said. She checked a pouch on her belt and made a little sound of annoyance. "Michael, would you look in the safe and see if there's one more clip in there?" she asked.

"Of course," he said, and went back in the house.

Charity turned to Sanya. "He forgets to eat when he's grieving," she said. "Don't let him."

Sanya looked alarmed. "Do you know something we don't?" he said.

"No," she said. "I just like to plan for contingencies. Keep it in mind."

"I will," he said.

Michael came back with the clip; Charity stowed it and kissed him, a quick peck on the cheek as if she were headed for the grocery store. Then she hefted the duffel bag's strap over her shoulder and gestured me toward the truck.

"Let's go," she said.


End file.
